


Very Good, Boyd

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-01
Updated: 2009-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeeves and Wooster, meet Boyd and Monaghan. With undying gratitude and sincerest apologies to PG Wodehouse for inserting my characters into his world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd recommend reading this [chapter by chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/en/works/3365/chapters/4211) (rather than as one long work), if only because I had a grand time trying to make as many of the chapters end on cliffhangers as possible (in homage to darling Pelham Grenville), and I think reading chapter by chapter is a little more fun. But that could just be me, of course. No matter how you read, thank you for reading - I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to need a restorer, Boyd."

I reached out from under the blankets and rang the bell for Boyd.

"Good evening, Boyd."

"Good morning, sir."

This surprised me. "Is it really?"

"Yes, sir."

I pushed the covers back with a shaky hand ("right as an aspen lefe" I thought of saying, but couldn't be bothered) and peered at Boyd. He looked offensively healthy (like a ripe, delicious apple, waiting to be bitten, but I quashed the thought, as I had been quashing similar thoughts for years), and I squinted at him with rather an ill will. "I am going to need a restorer, Boyd."

"I have anticipated the request, sir." He handed me a tumbler and I, after performing the ritual steeling-of-the-defenses necessary to facing the first swallow, downed it like the first of so many goldfish, gulped by some damned silly upper-classman pulling a stunt.

Once I had retrieved my eyes (they having rolled from my head like the wand'ring spheres of the poem by who-d'you-call-it), I sat up, feeling something closer to human. Of course there was the small matter of an energetic cricketer whose spiked cleats still dug into my head, but 'tis to be expected, and never shall it be said that a Monaghan cannot handle his fogram. "You are a marvel, Boyd." I sat up and rubbed my head muzzily.

"You are very kind, sir." He stepped back and held my dressing gown up.

If only one day he would lose the blasted thing, then perhaps I would have to climb out of bed in only my pyjamas, or - better yet - only my pyjama trousers, and then perhaps the sight of my bare chest might work some magic, and then perhaps Boyd might step closer, and then perhaps I might take his slim, neat hands into my own and pull him closer yet and then perhaps - Ah well. Fruitless garden of the mind, that. I sighed and slid my arms into the proffered garment, wishing my rather nagging erection would vanish.

Thus attired, I made my tender way into the parlour, where the marvel had eggs, kippers, bacon, and toast ready to hand. The _Times_ was there also, and coffee, thanks be to the god of all grindable beans.

Boyd was ironing in one corner and I had just settled in to the crossword ("Eight letters, 'How an higher angel might woo his love...'" "Serenade, perhaps, sir?") when the bell rang with less a tinkle than a jar. I clutched my head as Boyd swanned out to answer it, tucking the ironing board away as he went.

Aunt Philippa, drat the luck. She barged in, ate a slice of (my!) bacon, and made herself comfortable within the best brocade wing chair. "Dominic, you ass," she brayed in a voice really unsuitable for any early morning, and certainly this one, "Dominic, you ass," she repeated, "I understand that you are going to Lady Vencible's country house for the Yuletide."

"That is my plan," I replied. I did not add that it was subject to change - for instance, should I die due to a massive brain aneurism caused by her voice.

"She is an old friend of mine, and I want to put you on the alert not to act any stupider than you really must. Besides, Lord Ian Holm will also be there, and you know how he feels about you."

She glowered out from beneath lacquered eyebrows at me, and I swallowed my small bleat of terror, replacing it with a weak, "Oh, ah?"

Lord Ian, for those of you unacquainted with my earlier history, was once convinced that I, Dominic Monaghan, would make an ideal son-in-law. Not really surprising, considering the Monaghan charm, the Monaghan looks, and the Monaghan millions, but I'm dashed if I know why he thought I would stand still for the operation. His daughter Olivia is one of those soupy young plants who twitters on about faeries and wee bunnies and darling angels until a chap can hardly enjoy his evening dram. By a rather striking sequence of events I did somehow become engaged to the gawd-help-us. It took all of Boyd's (enormous) cranial capacity to scoop me from the fire on that occasion, by convincing Sir Ian that I was mentally unstable - not unbalanced enough to require a quick trip to the white-walled room, but far too weak in the head to marry his precious Olivia. Luckily she immediately fell into the arms of a dashing (and terrifying, but that is quite another story) army colonel and never looked at me again except with pity upon her features. Ever since then, the honourable peer has been just looking for an excuse to bung me in the loony kettle, and generally I avoid him. Discretion being the better part of something or other and all that.

So. You can see why the news that Lord Ian would also be enjoying the merriest part of winter at Buxton-on-Romper did not bring the ringing carol to my lips.

Aunt Philippa was blathering on. "His nephew will be there, too, I understand, quite a good lad - don't you go getting him into trouble, now, Dominic. His mother is another friend of mine, and she's kept him quite sheltered - no alcohol, no cigarettes - and she likes him that way. So just you keep your roistering ways to yourself. He's far too young to be chummy with the likes of _you_." She snorted, a sound which cut through the tendons like a fish knife through scales, and relaunched the good ship Philippa. "Don't see me out, Boyd can do it," she said, and made her ponderous exit, trailing sickly sweet rosewater scent behind her like a wake.

Well. This certainly dulled some of the glamour I had so looked forward to. And also of course Boyd would have heard the conversation, and there would be some explaining to -

Ah. Here he was. His usual perfectly bland expression was well in place, but I detected a certain thinning of the lips. Lovely lips, really, my favourite part of Boyd, if you didn't count his eyes, the aforementioned neat hands and feet, the high smooth forehead, the attractive line of his swallowtail coat over an arse that would cause the angels to weep... Still. Lovely lips. Lovely mouth. Thinned, as I say, in disapproval now, and there was also a particular twitch to his wrists (flexible wrists, those) as he loosed the ironing board with a clang that had me clutching my head in a trice.

"My dear Boyd -"

"Ah. I do apologize, sir. I had forgotten about your delicate head." He had done no such thing - the man never forgets anything, and anyway his usual warm Scottish lilt was about as warm as the icicles on the railing of the front steps.

"Boyd."

"Yes, sir?"

"You overheard Aunt Philippa, no doubt."

"Yes, sir."

"I had meant to tell you today, Boyd, that our trip to Cinqueterra for the holiday has been changed over for this one."

"Yes, sir."

"Less work for you, Boyd - no fussing about traveling, porters, all that sort of thing. Almost a holiday for you, I fancy."

"Yes, sir." Boyd industriously flattened a shirt which looked already quite flattened, and I began to feel really rather put out.

I mean to say, there was a master and a servant in the room, and there was no doubt, was there, that I was that master, and that Boyd was that servant. I drew myself up in my chair. "Boyd."

"Yes, sir."

"You needn't keep saying 'Yes, sir' in that irritating manner, Boyd. I am sorry if you are displeased about this change in plans, but it is final, and I expect that you shall see everything my way before the end of it."

"Yes, sir." Boyd folded the shirt, a narrow furrow deepening adorably over his long, lovely nose as he slapped it into the basket.

"Boyd."

He looked up, and the furrow was gone. "I do apologize, sir. I meant to say, 'No doubt, sir.'" The green eyes were perfectly clear and perfectly diffident. So why did I have the urge to throw my arms round him and beg forgiveness?

Stuff and nonsense. Taking a bracing breath, I spoke. "No need to apologize. Please have our things ready in the two-seater this afternoon. We'll leave for Buxton-on-Romper at half-past three."

"Yes, sir."

I thought of reprimanding him, but restrained myself. If Boyd wished to test the hardihood of the Monaghans with the cold shoulder, the Monaghan blood would rally to the flag. Say what you like, we Monaghans are not to be trifled with or managed. On the other hand, I would hate to have my best cufflinks left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What men call treasure and the gods call dross_, as Boyd once said.

Lady Vencible was not at all what one might have expected of a friend of Aunt Philippa's. She had a pleasant voice and a charming manner and treated me quite handsomely, by which I deduced that she had not been at home when Aunt Philippa had telephoned to warn her upon my flaws - as she certainly had done. This bode well for my stay at Buxton-on-Romper, and I was just settling into my room, Boyd regrettably ensconced belowstairs, when the door slammed open and in bounced one of my least favorite chaps in the world, whom I was strangely glad to see.

Orlando Bloom (Young Bloomers, as we call him in the City, to distinguish him from his father, who is just Bloomers, or occasionally Lord Bloomers) is a tall, lanky blighter who had the fortune to be born both fabulously attractive and fabulously wealthy. _What men call treasure and the gods call dross_, as Boyd once said when I waxed hot about this two-bit prankster's proclivities, and I could not agree more. Young Bloomers and I had been friends (and at school quite matey friends as these things do go on) until the night at our club when he set me up for a nasty bit of skulduggery, for which I had not been able to properly revenge myself even to that day at the Yuletide.

So you may find it strange that I welcomed him so heartily. "Bloomers!" I cried (the paternal patron being nowhere about to become confused, as did happen), and I sprang up and embraced him as a brother. "Capital to see you here!"

"Dommie, you blighter," he replied somewhat jovially, and we traded a few manly pats upon the back before he settled down in a chair with a fag, one leg crossed over the other, ankle waggling as merry as you please. "See you still haven't grown an inch," he smirked, and he laughed.

"See you still haven't grown a brain," I replied, and _I_ laughed.

We sat there chuckling to ourselves, and then I noticed how quickly his ankle was jiggling. "Something up your nose, Bloomers?" I inquired, ringing the bell for Boyd. I could do with a spot of brandy; maintaining my jolly exterior was difficult work with the benighted creature right here before me.

"I say, Dommie, did you just arrive?" He leaned forward, tapping his ash into a potted plant. "Met everyone yet?"

"I met Lady Vencible, seemed quite a decent old bird. And I knew you were coming, of course - and I heard Lord Holm is here, with some delicate creature of a nephew or other. I know precious Olivia _isn't_ here." I shuddered with relief. "Anyone else?"

"Oh, no." Bloomers didn't seem to be paying attention; he took such a drag off his fag it nearly vanished in a flare. "Just a few ancient aunts of one type or another, and an uncle somewhere about the grounds. It's the nephew I was thinking of." He leaned back, sat forward again.

"Lord, Bloomers, you're all in a tizzy. Is it over this nephew? Perhaps I should have a look." I smiled lazily, and scented the beginnings of interest.

At this Bloomers jumped up and began pacing. He ended by the mantel, where he carefully examined a porcelain shepherdess before dropping it onto the hearthstone to shatter.

"Easy on the accoutrements, there, old boy, Lady Vencible might have liked that one."

"Sorry, Dommie, it's just that I'm in love."

_Oho_. "With...?"

Boyd shimmered into the room, tray in hand. "You rang, sir?"

"And you have anticipated me as usual, my dear Boyd." He bowed and placed the drinks tray upon the sideboard. "A spot of brandy for me, and sherry for Bloomers over there - I daresay you recall Bloomers, Boyd?"

"I do, sir. 'What men call treasures,' I believe you said, sir," and Boyd nodded his head to Bloomers, who smiled rather distractedly and took the sherry glass from Boyd's hand without once noticing the dainty perfection of said hand - stupidity and blindness wrapped up in one package, was Bloomers, though I was just as glad, really.

"It's the nephew," Bloomers said, and then he tossed back the drink. "He's incredible, so _beautiful_, with a beauty that teaches the flames to do something I forget -"

"Beauty that doth teach the torches to burn bright, perhaps, sir?"

"Exactly, Boyd, thank you, yes, beauty that doth teach the torches to burn bright." Bloomers handed the tumbler back to Boyd for a refill. "And yet unspoiled, you know, Dommie. Not like you and me, we're brutes compared to the lad, soiled, rutting, sotted brutes..." He made as if to take a drink and then stared at the glass, horrified. Before Boyd could intervene and take the offending vessel from him, he smashed it, too, upon the hearthstone. My room was becoming quite the hazardous zone. At any moment men would rush in with yellow hats on and cordon the place about as unfit for habitation.

"Really, now, Bloomers, what was all that about," I said, standing up in rather a hurry. "You can just as well smash sherry glasses on your own hearth, you know, no need to muck my room up." I pushed him away from the mantel and began toeing the shards toward the grate.

"But I must stop _drinking_, don't you see?" Bloomers gasped. "I must be _worthy_ of him."

"Lord, you _are_ in it," I said, distracted by this pathetic showing on the part of someone whom I had, if not liked, at least respected as an adversary. "Well, tell me about him, at least."

"You'll help me?" He grabbed my lapels. "I came to ask your help."

"If you promise never to crease my jacket in that way again," I said, and he let me go.

"Of course, of course, frightfully rude." He sat down again in the chair and took out another cigarette, which he promptly began to shred.

"Shall I withdraw, sir?" Boyd asked politely.

"Certainly not," I replied, waving my hand. "Bloomers here may need your uncommon wit, Boyd. Have a seat."

"No, thank you, sir, I would prefer to stand."

"As you like, Boyd, although I must say, you are free to sit if you ever want to, you needn't even ask -"

"_Please!_" shrieked Bloomers, in something like the voice he had used when Sean "Kidney" Bean had banged into him particularly heartily in our footie days at school.

"Oh, right, sorry, sorry there old boy, do go on."

"All right." Bloomers drew in a shaky breath. "His name is Elijah, and he's over for the year from America. Apparently Lord Ian's sister married an American, something in Hollywood, I don't know. Maybe a cinema star, because Elijah is so fantastically beautiful..." He sighed, and seemed likely to drift off into lovesick reverie if something wasn't done.

"More, Bloomers, we need more," I rapped out, startling him into dropping the tattered remains of his unlit fag. "Give us something to work with."

"Oh, yes, of course. He is completely innocent - mother and father kept him at boarding school, never exposed to any sort of rough living or language. As pure as the new day. He just came over a month ago, and he has the most delicious American accent you can imagine, and enormous blue eyes, and the teeniest little gap between his teeth..." Bloomers's voice trailed off and I knew coherence was gone, as lost as Mary's little lamb. I sighed.

"Well, let me meet the lad, old fellow, and then perhaps Boyd can work upon it. Do you think he likes you at all?"

He fixed his goofy gaze upon me. "He did seem to be looking at me, oh-so-shyly, at luncheon today." A spark of hope lit his eyes, like a trout that sees a gleam in the water.

Probably just the sun off a hook, I mused sourly. "Well, as I say. We have two weeks - plenty of time to work miracles, eh, Bloomers?" I stood up, and he did, too, obedient creature, and after a minimum of back-slapping I chivvied him from the room.

When I turned back around Boyd was sweeping the glass into a pan, bent over most tantalizingly; if only his perfectly tailored tails would ride up just a bit further I might have a glimpse of - but no, it was not to be. He straightened and deposited the offending shards into the rubbish bin.

I sighed in disappointment and went to sit down again. "Well, Boyd, what do you think?"

"About young Lord Bloom, sir?"

"Yes, of course." I had a swallow of the revivifying d. and turned the tumbler idly in my hands, trying not to stare at Boyd, who was standing by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly upon the balls of his feet. His brow was furrowed in thought, his face wrought up in a considering frown. In other words, he was the picture of edibility, and I sighed again as I fantasized pinning him back against that wall, or better yet, him pinning me back against that wall...

"I think we need more time, sir," he said, and I started and blushed.

"Oh I daresay," I stammered, thinking _Take all the time you need, Boyd, just so long as we get to it someday_, before I realized he meant that he needed more time to ponder Bloomers's unfortunate state of arousal. Not mine. He did not require any time to think about _that_, because he did not know about it.

"Perhaps with observation we can help the gentleman win his love." He raised one eyebrow. "Though I must say, I am a bit surprised you have volunteered to do so. Being at odds with him, as you are."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Blast it, Boyd, that’s just the problem. I think I should come clean to you." _I am madly in love with you and I wish you would use the feather duster on certain parts of my anatomy which are very, very dirty._ Not that clean, perhaps. "I know you were disappointed that we didn't go to Italy for the season."

"Not at all, sir."

"Oh, now, Boyd, you needn't come it the sphinx with me. I could tell." I stood up and paced to the window. "You're a sporting man, you'd heard of the casinos there, got your blood up to have a wager or two at the tables and you were put out when I changed our schedule."

"I am always happy to serve, wherever I can best give satisfaction."

_Why_ must the man say such things?

I swallowed and cleared my throat. "Ahem. Yes, Boyd, I do know that, and believe me, I do appreciate it, as well. But I had a bloody good reason for wangling the invite here, and that was just it: Bloomers. You remember that prank he pulled at the club, don't you?"

"Certainly, sir. You were somewhat incensed by the affair, as I recall."

"Yes, just as God was 'somewhat incensed' at the human race when he smote us all with a wee drop of _rain_, Boyd. You do have a gift for understatement."

"My Scots heritage, no doubt, sir."

Had Boyd made a joke? I stared at him, wide-eyed. No. Of course not. He gazed limpidly back at me, eyes like pools of deepest green, face as polite as... well. As always. "Indeed," I said weakly, before rallying myself to continue. "So. Bloomers is not my favorite fellow, as understatement might put it -" I glanced sharply at him, but no quiver of the lip, no twitch of cheek or jaw betrayed amusement, so I carried on - "and I had thought this visit would be the perfect chance to serve myself up a nice brimming dish of revenge."

"Best served cold, as they say, sir," nodded Boyd.

"Precisely! And as they say in the blood-curdlers, I have motive, I have means - my own brain, and yours if I may be so bold as to borrow it -"

"- Always, sir."

"- thank you, and by coming here I have opportunity. Perfection, my dear man. And now _this_. This blasted, bloody, bally mess, wherein the ninnyhammering lout comes to ask _my help_ in securing his own true love. Well, what is a fellow to do?"

"I do see your predicament, sir."

"Of course you do, Boyd, you're a man of honour. I mean to say, I cannot very well go bouncing about the place causing buckets of fish to fall on the fathead's fat head now that he's enlisted my aid."

"Certainly not, sir."

I threw my hands up. "I feel the whole trip has been wasted, and I can't even fake the stomach flu and duck out for the casinos. I have to stay and see it through - to the doubtless harrowing end." I sank down upon the edge of the bed.

"Well, sir, we shall have to see what events transpire."

"I suppose," I said gloomily.

"Sir..."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid I have some news which may come as a wee shock to you."

"Lay it upon my shoulders, Boyd." I sighed heavily. "They are already bowed down with the weight of the world."

"I am afraid that earlier intelligence suggested that Lord Ian's daughter Olivia would be spending the holiday in Scotland, with another family, engaging in snow sports."

"Yes, thank heavens." I looked sharply up at him. "Wait a moment. You don't mean to tell me -"

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. It appears that Miss Olivia injured her ankle whilst sporting, and she has decided to come and spend the remainder of the holiday here with her father. She and a few friends will arrive on the morning train."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...It does cheer one, to be sartorially prepared."

I went down to dinner in much the same frame of mind of a man who has been sentenced to execution might approach his final supper. The end wasn't actually at hand, but it was quite close, and this man might feel torn between no appetite and the greatest appetite of his life, as it were, considering oncoming events.

Boyd had counseled me most encouragingly that as there were still two weeks to go in our visit, I might be happily surprised, but I had merely laughed hollowly. "My good man, I regard your attempts at cheer as touching, but really. False cheer is no use at this juncture. ...Are the trousers right, do you think?"

"A half-inch higher, sir, would produce a gratifying effect, I believe."

"Right as always, Boyd. It does cheer one, to be sartorially prepared."

"Indeed, sir. A most strengthening effect upon the psyche."

"Psychology of the individual, what, Boyd?"

"As you say, sir."

And so I had left feeling a bit better, but now, nose to the trough, waiting for the others to come in, I felt the gloom settle upon me again. Two weeks in this bally place, with Lord Ian and the wretched Olivia and bloody Bloomers and this nephew, who was probably a simpering git, some pathetic excuse for a -

Oh. Oh _my_.

The nephew came in, and I ended by dabbling my fingers in my soup instead of my finger bowl, but burnt fingertips seemed a small price to pay for a smile like the one he turned upon me as he sat down across the table.

Yes, his eyes were quite blue, and rather alarmingly large. He had dark hair swept back from a high, white brow, and a mouth... Well, yes, that was a mouth, there, below the narrow, aristocratic nose. His skin was, quite simply, flawless. Plenty of girls I know would kill for skin like that. I wouldn't mind it myself. Wouldn't mind touching it, anyhow, just to see if it was as smooth and fine as it -

Wait. Wait just one bally moment.

_Point A_. Bloomers had already laid claim upon this Elijah child, fair and square. The claim was merely, "I saw him first," but such a claim is honourable, and the Monaghans are an honourable people.

_Point the Second_. Elijah Wood was, yes, stunningly beautiful. But he could not hold a candle to Boyd. He was like the moon, sickly pale with jealousy etcetera. Green eyes versus blue eyes? No contest there, friend, Boyd's sparkling green eyes took the wire by twenty lengths. Master Wood might have perfect, flawless skin, but it was, in fact, _too_ pretty. His mouth was nice, yes, but Boyd's mouth was one the poets could sing of. And most telling of all, could young Wood boast Boyd's complete and utter intelligence?

Could anyone?

The matter settled, I smiled comfortably back at the nymph, basted my stinging fingertips with butter, and set about my food with an easy mind.

Bloomers was two down from Wood, and kept leaning forward, trying to engage him in conversation. Wood responded well enough, but for some reason he looked also at me, until finally Lord Ian (tucking in beside me) snorted to himself and recalled his manners and introduced us. (In the normal way of things this would have occurred with cocktails before dinner, but being so very low in my mind I had skipped this pleasant hour and descended direct to the dining table.)

"Mr. Monaghan," said Lord Ian, squinting at me and moving his knife away from my left hand, "my nephew, Elijah Wood, from the United States."

I nodded my head in lieu of a handshake, and Elijah Wood glimmered at me. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monaghan."

"Call me Dommie, what?"

"Call me Doodle."

"Jolly good, jolly good. From whence in the States do you hail?"

"California," Doodle answered. "Although I like it so much here I think I may stay."

I saw Bloomers getting ready to make an ass of himself with some monstrous declaration about how lovely that would be, so I stepped quickly in. "What is it you like best, if I may ask?"

"The people. The young gentlemen in particular seem _so_ much more interesting than the ones back home. _Much_ more interesting." And he blushed prettily and took a hurried bite of his pasty.

So there was no doubt at least that the lad was on Bloomers's team. Or mine, if it came to it - no. It would not. I smiled and we fumbled our way on in conversation. I was just working my way round to what a capital fellow Bloomers was, when it happened to out that Doodle there liked modern music.

Well, you'll hardly find a fellow more in love with modern in the whole of the isle than Dominic Monaghan, and I told the lad so with enthusiasm. Before I knew it he was engaged to come up to my room after supper and look at my phonograph records.

A noise like a foghorn interrupted our merry chat, and I realized Bloomers had cleared his throat and was glaring at me. I daresay it was the look Barrabas got from Peter when he was set free while Pete's pal Jesus was busy carrying his cross toward Gethsemane. I recalled my mission and hastily invited Bloomers to join us. "No one appreciates music like Bloomers," I said, and Doodle looked interested in this. So Bloomers was mollified and all was right with the world again.

After supper I was leaning on the mantelpiece in the library with a fag, watching Bloomers (orange juice) try to charm Doodle (orange juice) and Lord Ian and the ancient uncle (brandy) examine some book or other, when Boyd spoke into my ear.

I jumped a mile high and let out a squeak. He put one hand on my arm to steady me, and I thought immediately that perhaps in future I should try swooning near him, to see what that might net me. I filed the thought away for later consideration and forced my vocal apparatus into compliance. "Boyd! How do you do that?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Appear like - oh, never mind. Why are you here?"

He leaned conspiratorially close, and I concentrated so hard upon smelling him - soap and clean linen and something else, probably just sheer sexual magnetism, honestly - that I didn't hear what he said. "I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Olivia caught an earlier train down than I had been told, sir," he repeated. "She arrived just before dinner with some friends and had a tray in her room, but she is expected in the drawing room."

"And so you came to warn me."

"Exactly, sir."

I gazed upon him with open adoration. "You are a wonder, Boyd, have I said so before?"

"You flatter me, sir." He looked almost unsettled - was that a flush upon his neck? Probably just the proximity of the fireplace.

"Not half as much as I jolly well should, Boyd." I stared at him for a moment longer. "Well. Thank you very much, it is appreciated. I think... I think I feel something coming on?"

"Perhaps a headache, sir - you often get them when you drive such a distance in one day." All solicitous concern, was my Boyd.

"Do I? Oh, ah. Indeed. Yes. Thank you, Boyd." I cocked my head. "Perhaps a hot bath would set my weary brow for rest."

"I shall see to it, sir." Boyd nodded and vanished - really, it was odd how he could do that.

And so I slipped out of the library and up the stairs, after informing Doodle and Bloomers that I would regretfully have to postpone our soiree.

~*~*~*~

Thank heavens, say I, for indoor plumbing and for bathrooms _en suite_. Thank heavens most vociferously for gentlemen's gentlemen who know exactly what temperature one likes best and which scents soften one's skin but do not detract from one's manliness.

Thank heavens, in other words, for William Boyd.

William. That was his given name, and I had never breathed it in his presence. I saved it, like a token, for my most private moments. If it had been a lock of his hair I could not have worn it closer to my heart.

Lying in the warm, fragrant water, I thought his name to myself.

_William_.

If only he knew. If only he knew how I longed for his touch, how much I desired him. If only I could make it clear that it was not a servant-master relationship I craved for the two of us. I knew there were men in my position who had tumbled servants, from chambermaids to housekeepers, from stable boys to butlers, but it wasn't like that, for me. I didn't want to tumble William.

I wanted to be tumbled _by_ him, to be kissed breathless by that sweet mouth, to feel it move ruthlessly down my body - I had quite the erection now, and I began to stroke myself lightly - to see those rosy lips tight around my equally rosy cock - mmm, it felt good; I sped things up a bit. I wanted William to twist my arms behind my back and slide one of those small, delicate hands past the waistband of my trousers. Use my braces to tie my wrists, perhaps - that was a good image, I was starting to breathe more quickly - and push my trousers and pants half down, wrinkle them - "I'll iron them," I moaned into the steamy air - push one finger and then two into me, wet only by his own tongue. Spiral those fingers around. Shove me into the wall, so my erection ground into it, his other hand brutal on that throbbing flesh - I was working myself hard now, splashing water all about - and then I wanted him _against_ me, wanted to feel the head of his cock pushing against my entrance, thrusting into me while he _twisted_ and _stripped_ my own hard-on with his hand. Wanted Boyd - _William!_ \- to pound me _into_ the wall and _through_ it and onto the _floor_ and through _that_, fuck me senseless until he came hard in me and _I_ came and -

I came, and the effort it took not to scream his name was an habitual one.

I slid down further into the tub, breathing hard for a few moments and watching my own thick, white stuff spiral lazily in the warm water over my submerged belly.

Nothing for it now but to run the water again. I sighed, climbed out of the tub and set to, mopping up the water on the floor while I waited for the bath to fill, and wished I weren't so familiar with the chore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I opened the door without any inkling of the trouble I was setting up for.

Nothing like a spot of self-abuse (and the knowledge that one has put off seeing a soupy bird for another few precious hours) to cheer a fellow, and when I climbed out of my second batch of bathwater, I was feeling chipper. I slipped on a pair of silk pyjamas and my dressing gown and pottered about the room, sniffing out the places where Boyd had hidden all my goods.

I was just putting a record on the gramophone when a tentative knock came at the door, like twilight, a timid fawn, and so on. "Who is it?" I inquired as I crossed to the door, fearing Olivia, though I'd hoped the stairs might prove a barrier, what with her dicky leg and all.

"Doodle," came the reply, so I opened the door without any inkling of the trouble I was setting up for. I daresay that's how poor Pandora felt - she probably had no idea when she cracked that pretty box to take a peep inside.

No sooner was he through the door than he'd kicked it closed behind himself and he was on me.

Now, when I say, "he was on me," you might be picturing some cheerful schoolboy tackle, a bit of jocular rough-housing between the lads.

That picture would be wrong.

Wood was on me like the Loch Ness Monster on haggis, to coin a phrase from Boyd's native land, and it quite took me aback. I mean, one doesn't quite know what to say - or how to say it, of course - when a bloke one met two hours before has his tongue down one's throat and his hands in the front of one's dressing gown.

"I - hoy, I say, Wood, what's this all _about?_" I gasped when I managed to pull my mouth away from his, apparently freeing it only so that he could begin licking my neck enthusiastically. I squirmed away from him - it tickled, quite apart from any feelings of wrongdoing I might have suffered - and put a little table between him and me. I wiped my hand across my mouth. He'd tasted of drink. Quite strange, when one considered his virginal upbringing. I'm bound to say that his lascivious approach to current events wasn't doing much to confirm such an upbringing, and I wondered as to the truth of previous reports.

"Oh, come on, Dommie, I saw the way you looked at me when I first came into the dining room. And don't tell me that was a lousy kiss, because it wasn't." He circled the table, unbuttoning his shirt, and I sauntered sideways in response, keeping a safe distance. "I've been bored out of my mind here. You're the first thing that's smelled like fun since I arrived in this frozen wasteland." He tossed the shirt into the corner.

"Oh, ah, I do see, but really -" I countered a quick lunge to his left by making one to _my_ left, then leapt around the bed just for a cushion of space. "And I'm quite, ah, _flattered_, really, but I say, Doodle. I mean, you can't just - and how did you know I'd like being kissed by a lad, anyhow?" I put my hands on my hips, feeling rather put out.

Wood laughed. "Oh, Dommie, seriously. You've got 'Nancy' tattooed across that lovely forehead of yours, practically." He really was a pretty thing... Shut up, why was I listening to any organ other than my brain? And how could said organ have much to contribute after our tête-à-tête in the bathroom just a few short moments before?

"Doodle my lad, you've got me all wrong. Well, not _all_ wrong, but there are facts you don't have within your grasp!"

He stood hipshot for a moment, arms folded across his (narrow, smooth, muscular - _shut up!_) chest. "What facts are those?"

"I, ah, erm..." Inspiration struck. "Bloomers! Orlando, that is to say, he thinks you're frightfully cute, and he plays for Magdalene as well, as they say. He's quite smitten with you."

"Oh, _him_." Elijah seemed happy to brush all thought of Bloomer away. "He's fine looking, but a smashing bore, doncha know. Clean as a whistle - handed me a glass of orange juice in the library, can you imagine? I had to slip the vodka in when he wasn't looking."

My mind boggled at the thought of Bloomers as clean as a whistle - the same Bloomers who'd once been done by the entirety of the upper-class footie team in a legendary after-game round-robin? - and Doodle took unfair advantage of my distraction, sidling toward me so I only just escaped.

"Even so!" I squeaked - yes, I can admit it - "thank you very much, but no thank you."

Doodle looked hurt, and he blinked his big blue eyes at me. "But why not? I saw how you leered at me. That leer didn't say 'Keep away,' exactly." And he clambered over the bed and tackled me. I found my back pinned against the French windows, and my front pinned against a compact, attractive American with his tongue down my throat - again.

There is no telling how things might have gone from there. Dommie Junior was reviving amazingly, the stupid sodding idiot, and my knees were getting rather weak as Doodle's hands slid down over my hips and inward -

Someone knocked at the door. I shoved Elijah away and then, with a presence of mind I could later but admire objectively, I pushed him down and under the bed, one of those high, downily quilted affairs so common in country homes of the finer sort.

"A moment!" I sang merrily to the unknown applicant for entrance, and leaned down. "Stay under there and stay quiet!" I hissed.

"I can wait," he whispered.

I crossed to the door, retying my jacket and smoothing my hair as best as I could. "Who is it?"

"It's Bloomers," came the reply, and I opened to him.

"Bloody hell, Dommie, what took you so long?" he complained, breezing past me. "Are you alone?"

"Do you see anyone else?" I gestured to my apparently empty room.

"Hmmm." He turned on me. "So what did you think?"

"About?" Play it dumb, Monaghan - gets 'em every time.

"Elijah," Orlando said, rolling his eyes heavenward like a Renaissance madonna. "Has there ever breathed a more beautiful boy? He's like a cherub. No, what's higher than that? Aren't there some sort of ranks? Whichever angel is the admiral of the ocean-sea, that's Elijah. Those _eyes_, those _lips_, those raven locks -"

"Did you have a point, Bloomers?"

"I just wondered. What you thought, that is."

_I think he's an undersexed loon who needs to learn to think with his brain rather than his cock. As do I_. "He seems, erm, nice enough. Now really, Bloomers, shove off, won't you? I've an express train rocketing through my head, and I'd like to be left with it."

"Yes, yes. If you see him, tell him I'll be in the smoking room, won't you? I can't think where he's got to."

_Ten feet in front of you and under the dust ruffle_. "Right ho, right ho. Off you go, now, Bloomers. Have a fag for me. Cheerio." And with similar sentiments I got him out, shutting the door with relief. I leaned against it, breathing deeply. If ever a chap needed Boyd, now would be the -

"Nice work." It was breathed into my ear, in a charming American voice, and that was probably a charming American hand sliding over my arse down there... I squawked and leapt - the harts that pant for water have nothing on the Monaghans, I can assure you - and backed away, hands out to ward off the undersized Romeo, who was stalking me across the carpet.

"Listen, there, Wood, I'll need you to shove off, too, if you don't mind. You're a lovely boy, none lovelier, but I'm not in the market for your particular brand of fruit at the moment." I tripped over the corner of the hearthstone and stumbled backward, then wrenched myself upright - _oh, my back!_ \- and took a stand beside the enormous wardrobe. "See here, Wood, this is my room -" he just kept coming - "and you can't just come bouncing in here and expect to have it all your way -" he looked like a tiger, all sharp teeth and lazy grace, and shut UP you stupid imbecilic lump of brainless meat, you are not getting hard, you are _not_ \- "so I'll ask you to please leave." I fiddled with my arms for a moment and then folded them defiantly across my chest. _So there_.

"Oh, I'll leave." He came closer and closer until his jaw was jutting right at mine and I could feel the heat from his bare chest on my arms. "Right after you've fallen asleep because you've been shagged through the mattress. Dommie."

And then, dammit - no, thank heavens! - there was _another_. Knock. Upon. The door.

"It's like the bloody treaty at _Versailles_," I said as I pushed Wood into the wardrobe and slammed the door on his grinning face.

"May I help you?" I was saying in an exasperated tone as I swung the door to my room open.

I stopped the exasperation right there, and replaced it with something more akin to complete dismay at the sight of a girl, drooping upon her crutches and regarding me with that soupy, sappy, terrifyingly drippy expression which I had seen only in nightmares since that summer at Underwold.

"Liv!" I exclaimed brightly.

"Oh, _Dommie_," she fluted. "How _good_ it is to see you again."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I could hang myself with the bellpull.

Now many men of the more or less heterosexual type might see Liv Holm and say "Dommie, you are a poofter of the highest degree." And they would be right, of course. But aside from all that: I can objectively say that Liv is, indeed, one of God's better-wrought works upon the earth, as birds go - sleek black hair and luminous white skin and glowing eyes and a sweet melodic voice and curves in all the right places _und so weiter_. If you like that sort of thing, which I do as a sort of study in aesthetics but otherwise it's frankly wasted upon me.

But really, in my defense I should say that were I as straight as the proverbial arrow (shot by someone other than Alexander or another Greek, one must suppose), I would shy away from Liv as though the girl were made of red-hot molten iron. Perhaps I have not been clear enough in describing her as soupy, but if ever a girl might be described as soupy, this was she. Liv would waste her lovely melodic voice upon poetry of the stupidest, sappiest kind, she would put the glowing eyes most glowily to use when going on about wee faeries and elves and such hideous nonsense. She would have been a frightening prospect even had I been the most matrimonial-minded of men; since I was, in fact, engaged only by the prospect of the delectable William Boyd, she was downright terrifying.

And now she was standing upon my doorstep, looking kind and pathetic and rather knock-kneed on account of the crutches, and what was I to do? What, I ask you?

"Liv, darling, lovely to see you after such a long time," I said, and held the door open wide for her.

She entered my rooms with somewhat diminished grace. I stood gawping for a moment, then remembered my manners and trotted about to settle her in a chair. She bunged me in the elbow with the crutches and then I caught one right in the goolies before I managed to wrench the possessed creatures from her grasp. "Let's just lay these aside for when needs call, shall we?" I wheezed, limping to an adjacent wingchair, where I sat bent over, contemplating my prospects as a eunuch. Some of them had excellent taste in clothes, at least, and I was picturing myself in something gauzy and Scheherazade-esque, being unwrapped by the Sultan (rather fairer than most Musselmen, I suspect, but possessed of the most perfect mouth gifted to the race of men and genii) when Liv let fly with what can only be called a Meaningful Sigh.

She's always been one for the Meaningful Sighs, so I didn't attach much significance to it, but she followed it up with a rather limp Flutter of the Hands, and a Soulful Look, and I was getting quite nervous by the time she opened the old m. to let ship with some actual words. "Oh, Dommie."

"Yes, indeed, so you've said," I replied patiently.

"Dommie, you know, don't you, that I am not one of these _modern_ girls." She blinked at me moonily. "I so often feel _misplaced_ in these quick-moving times, as though set here by an erring Fate, when in truth I am more a creature of ages _long passed_." I was forced to admit her perfect correctness; I never had thought of her as a modern girl. I did not add that she seemed to me a creature not so much from another time as another planet. Discretion of speech being more than mere eloquence or something along those lines. The wardrobe gave an ominous sort of shudder, and I started as though bitten.

Oh bugger, she was going on. I tore my eyes from the wardrobe door, which shivered with another slight tremor, and attempted to focus on her. "And so I hope that your _opinion_ of me will not be diminished by what I want to say to you."

"Oh, I say, certainly not - there is nothing you could say which would diminish you in my eyes, Liv." I coughed, and the wardrobe sneezed. I immediately exclaimed, "Oh pardon me!" as loudly as possible and rubbed my nose vigorously.

Liv looked confused, but forged ahead regardless - have to admire that kind of grit, really. "Bless you, of course, and thank you for paying me such a gallant compliment. It leads me so _nicely_ into what I have to say - and again, I would never dream of saying this to anyone but you, who _understand_ my soul so _perfectly_." She leaned forward rather alarmingly. "Dommie."

"Hmm?" I tried to look at her, rather than past her at the wardrobe.

"I know that you have pined in vain for me, since those _halcyon_ days nearly two years ago at Underwold-on-Sloughbourne. And I have concluded, too, that your early subterfuge of being weak in the wits was just that - a subterfuge." She laughed gaily, a tinkling little laugh that made every muscle in my body clench, even those which are much better off relaxed, particularly at intimate moments which might, hypothetically, involve myself, and Boyd, and a jolly large helping of salad oil... Right. She was still blathering: "_You_ knew that Colonel Bean was in love with me, and you _concocted_ that story of yours because your nobility of soul would not _allow_ you to stand between us. But Dommie, I would never have allowed you to _step aside_ so selflessly if I had known that."

I confess that words failed me for a moment. I heard a faint giggle from somewhere in the direction of the wardrobe, but even this could not distract me. Or, unfortunately, Liv. Help. I needed help. I'd no bally idea what she might say next, but I was frightened, I am man enough to admit it: I was terror-struck.

I reached behind me and groped desperately for the bellpull. "Would you like something to drink?" I wheezed, giving the cord a surreptitious yank. Boyd. I needed Boyd. "Who came down with you from Scotland?"

"Oh -" she waved her hand dismissively. "Seanie and his servant he brought back from India, treats the man like his own child." Seanie? Ah. Colonel Bean, she must mean, her petrifying fiancé. "Miranda Otto, you remember her from Underwold of course -" a horsy, vaguely pretty sort of girl, I recalled, always hovering round Liv and glaring at Bean and any other males who came within twenty yards. "But they are not the _gist_ of the matter. Or rather, Seanie is." She was not to be derailed. "Since he came back from India in the summer, he's not been the same man. I recently broke off relations with him," - _bollocks!_ \- "and frankly he seemed almost _relieved_." And no wonder, but it seemed less than politic to point it out, as her eyes were swimming sadly.

"Oh, ah, Liv, that's terrible, you and he seemed ideally suited to one another," I mumbled, handing her a handkerchief. It was a lie, of course - impossible to imagine Bean as being suited to anyone, there being a notable absence of whip-wielding lion tamers in our social circle - but I had to say _something_. I tugged frantically at the bellpull again. Boyd! How I longed for him! I needed a drink.

"Well, we _aren't_ \- dear friends still, of course, but the engagement is all off. And so," she raised her teary orbs to me and smiled bravely - _Boyd! Help me!_ \- "I will marry you, my darling Dommie."

Suddenly I needed more than a drink, I needed a cyanide pill, or possibly a rusty knife. Either-or, I could be flexible. I fingered the silken cord behind my back, ignoring the fact that the wardrobe across the room was quivering. Perhaps I could hang myself with the bellpull.

She was suddenly all business, a steely glint in her eye. "Tomorrow you can tell my father about it all," she said. She pointed at the crutches. "_Would_ you be a love?"

The door opened and Boyd swanned in. I wanted to feel relief, but all I could manage was utter misery. I mean, there he was, looking serene and butlery and perfectly scrumptious, and there she was, fluttering at me diabolically.

"Boyd, Miss Holm was just leaving, could you...?" I gestured weakly toward the crutches, slumping back in the chair with my hand shading my eyes.

"Certainly, Miss." He solicitously helped her stand and propped the crutches under her, stepping back just in time to avoid a smart whack in the knee.

"Good night, darling," she said chirpily.

"Nnnngh," I replied.

Boyd closed the door behind her blasted willowy form and came to stand before me. I could see his black trousers and shining, mirror-bright shoes. "Sir?"

"Nnnngh," I said again.

The blackest pits of hell. In the grips of the most abject of abject miseries. Face down in the bathtub and not a bubble left to breathe. It is not often that we Monaghans find ourselves thus, but so it was that Boyd found me that dreadful, dreadful night. I could not look at him - could not bear to meet his beautiful green eyes, examine the perfect mouth, sweet nose, high and noble brow, knowing as I did that they would soon be reft from me, torn from my sight as Liv would, unfortunately, not be. No mistress would allow a valet who aroused her husband's desires far more than she did. I sighed.

The trousers and shoes moved, shifted, and - oh, my heart! Boyd was kneeling beside me. He lay one small, perfect hand upon my knee. "Sir, are you ill?"

I looked up. His face was so close and so kind, so very full of care. The noble brow was creased with anxiety, the green eyes considerate and worried. His perfect little bow-shaped mouth was pursed, and I felt a wild recklessness surge within my breast. If I was to die, I would not go without having at least one kiss.

"Boyd," I said, with the calm resolution of the man at the block, and I leaned toward his sweet lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Boyd, take a note: I'd like gladiolas at the funeral. I always liked gladiolas."

"He's incredibly sick!"

I sighed and continued my forward lean, with a slight change of angle, until my nose was resting upon my pyjama leg. I remained bent double thus, inhaling the comforting scent of clean cotton, as the wardrobe door banged open and Boyd attained his feet in what might, in a lesser being, be called a scramble.

Wood was at it again. He breezily slammed the wardrobe closed behind him and bounced over to sit in the chair so recently vacated by Liv. "Sick in the head, that's what you are, Dommie. Did you _see_ her? I did. And she wants _you_."

He whistled disbelievingly, and I lifted my head to glare at him. Still shirtless, of course, swinging his elegantly clad leg insouciantly. "Piss off, Wood, I've no energy for you at the moment. I'm busy planning my suicide. Boyd, take a note: I'd like gladiolas at the funeral. I always liked gladiolas."

Boyd took a stance beside my chair. "Certainly, sir," he said calmly. "Can I provide the young gentleman with a shirt?" Did I detect a hint of chill in his lovely lilt?

Oh, sod it. What difference did it make if Boyd knelt and looked at me with tenderness and care _now_, if he got jealous _now?_ "He can get his shirt himself. Doodle, I'll need you to get right out."

He raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment and fetched his shirt, shrugging it carelessly over his smooth chest. "Seriously, Dommie, I've no idea why you would be upset at the prospect of marrying that dish. She's gorgeous and she's as dumb as a box of rocks - you could lead a perfectly happy life with her by your side and me in your bed." He purred this last directly into my ear; Boyd stepped back frostily and I raised my eyes to glare at Wood.

"That may be true, but it's not exactly jake. Not really what a Monaghan _does_, ta-very-much."

He shrugged and turned to the door. "Your loss... darling Dommie." He smirked and closed the door behind himself.

"Sir?" Boyd's voice was warm again, warm and caressing and absolutely bloody aphrodisiacal, and I could only shake my head miserably, looking down at my knees. The silence between us stretched out for a good while, and then he moved, padding over to the bar and mixing something up. I raised my eyes to watch, and he began to speak, his lovely Scottish voice rolling over me like honey. "I take it that Miss Holm is once again affianced to you, sir." I didn't answer. "Quite a quandary." He capped the decanters and turned, carrying a tumbler on a little silver salver. "But please, sir, I do hate to see you so pressed down by these worries." He handed me the drink and I swallowed half in one go. "I am certain that something can be done; it was Herr Schlegel, I believe, who said that although everyone enjoys a bit of wickedness in the middle, happy endings are demanded for all. I paraphrase, of course." I emptied the glass and stood. He gifted me a tiny smile and I felt my heart lift, all unwitting.

Or perhaps it was the drink; I was swaying where I stood, from the various shocks of the evening, no doubt. "Oh, Boyd. If anyone can save me from the feminine wiles of that... female... I've no doubt it is you."

He took my arm soothingly and led me to the bed. "I shall certainly apply myself to resolving the sticky situation with all due haste."

Tucked up, lights out, Boyd (regrettably) gone belowstairs again, I pondered the mess I found myself neck deep in. I felt my panic overlaid by a strange certainty that Boyd would, indeed, apply himself assiduously, that all would come right in the end. This comfortable hope left me free to drift to sleep musing upon Boyd's dulcet tones, uttering the words "sticky situation" and variations upon same.

~*~*~*~

The new day did not begin auspiciously; Boyd came up to dress me, generally a pleasant and stimulating start. The morning, however, had found me once again weltering in the doldrums, convinced that I was doomed, doomed forever to a life of misery by the side of an idiotic flutterhead with all the wit and attraction of a mouldy bit of Stilton.

"Will you be seeing Lord Holm today?" Boyd asked, smoothing my jacket at the waist.

Oh, his hands, touching me, soothing me, arousing me, soon to be ripped untimely from my body - "Yes, I suppose so," I gloomed.

He met my eyes in the glass, his face solemn and calm. "If I may, sir -"

Hope rose in me, like the coming of the waters in season of flood or somesuch, and I very nearly grabbed his hand. "Have you come up with a plan, Boyd?"

My soul was dashed upon the rocks with his next words. "No, sir, I have not. But I do have a spot of advice, if you are so inclined to hear me." He bowed his head and stepped back.

"Say on, Boyd." My shoulders slumped, but I was not so far gone as to ignore his words.

"You mentioned last night, sir, that Miss Holm has become aware of the dubious nature of our earlier statements regarding your mental condition -"

"My barminess, you mean?"

"As you say, sir. Miss Holm is now aware that you are sound in mind as well as body, am I correct?"

"Apparently so, Boyd, though how she knows it is a mystery to me." I fiddled with a loose thread at my cuff moodily.

"I would merely like to point out, sir, that there is no reason to believe Lord Holm has the same information. And it might be useful to you to maintain the illusion, and not reveal that you are _mens sana in corpore sanos_, so to speak." He was folding my pyjamas, smoothing the linen with his neat hands, eyes downturned modestly.

I cocked my head at him. Oh my sainted Aunt Edna he looked luscious. "I should keep acting loony around the old fish, you mean?"

"Precisely so, sir. You might, perhaps, tell him that you have received treatment and are calmer than previously. This paves the way to using the same ruse that was so effective two summers ago." He reached to straighten my tie.

"A bit more _sana_ in _mens_ than before, what? Well, if you think it will be helpful..." I sighed as he finished and stepped away to survey my attire.

"I don't know that it will, sir, but it is best to keep one's options open, I have always believed."

I squared the old shoulders and tried to look brave. "Very well, Boyd. I have the utmost respect for your wits -" _and your arse_ \- "and I shall do as you say."__

_"Thank you, sir. I believe breakfast is available downstairs, if you feel so inclined."_

_I shook my head sadly. "I do _not_ feel so inclined, Boyd, I would feel more inclined to a rough bit of dentistry -" _buggery_ \- "but perhaps I should swallow a few bites of something strengthening before braving Goliath's den."_

"Very wise, sir."

Upon entering the breakfast room I was greeted by the sight of Miranda Otto, who, if you will recall, Liv had brought with her from the snowy wastes of Scotland.

The Otto girl, as I have mentioned, could be considered somewhat horsey. I do not say it in reference to her looks, which were quite passable - strawberry blonde locks, well-shaped nose and mouth, curves in the places where girls should have curves and dips in the places where those are requisite. No, I say she is horsey in the Pony Club-sponsoring, jodphurs-wearing, riding-crop-wielding, smells-vaguely-of-barns-and-leather sort of way. So I found her now, slapping the side of her boots (shiny, black, tall, and I craved a pair of my own immediately, wondering if Boyd would approve of them) with a crop (which I also craved and rather wondered if Boyd might approve) and looking sullenly at the morning's culinary offerings, which were substantial, if poorly attended, seeing as Miranda and I were the only two souls in evidence.

"Lovely morning, eh, Miss Otto," I offered timidly.

She directed upon me a gaze of such withering disdain that I felt my ascot crumple sadly. "For god's sake, Dommie, call me Miranda. Just because we haven't seen each other in a year and more doesn't mean you have to call me _Miss Otto_." She speared a defenseless kipper and ate it while glaring at me.

I approached hesitantly to look over the groaning board. "Corking, old girl, ah, Miranda," I replied, hoping this was the right tone to take.

"Liv tells me you're engaged to her. Again."

Perhaps not, as her voice was significantly chilly - made my bones long for the tropic Arctic Circle, in fact.

"I, ah - hmm." I cast about for the words which would say _Not for long, if I can possibly help it, because you see I find her a hideously weak-headed bore and I would rather put paid to this too, too solid flesh than spend one hour, nay, one minute, espoused to her_, but the words simply weren't there - should have asked Boyd, he'd have biffed off a spiffing response for me in a jiffy - and so I trailed off weakly.

She was glaring at me now, blue eyes boring into me like, well, like something that bores dreadfully, really, and I'd no idea why. "I just want to tell you, Dommie, that I think you're a complete ninnyhammer, and I hope that Liv doesn't go and do something so chowderheaded as to marry you."

"Oh, ah?"

"Yes, oh ah. You are a _bit_ better than that crashing boor she was engaged to, but not by much - a half-inch if that." Without looking at the board, she stabbed another kipper and popped it into her mouth, staring me down while chewing on it in a way that I would call unladylike if I were not such a paragon of gentlemanly gallantry.

"I shall -" I sniffed with an attempt at haughtiness. "I shall keep your opinion in mind. Good morning." And taking a small collation upon the plate in my hand, I fled.

You would think, would you not, that things must certainly have improved from there, wouldn't you? Alas, no, such was not to be upon that wretched morning. Already prone beneath the weight of despair, my soul could only give a faint and pathetic wriggle when I was cornered, upon leaving the nook where I had hidden to choke down a few dry swallows, by Bean.

_Cornered_ would be the correct word to describe the event; if ever a fellow cornered another fellow, that first fellow was Bean, and that second fellow was me. No sooner had I emerged, leaving my dish tucked handily behind a potted palm, than he was upon me. It was almost as though he'd been lurking in the halls waiting for me.

"Monaghan," he barked, and I leapt into the air in a way that twelve lords a-leaping could not possibly best.

"Bean!" I shrieked, attempting to change it at the end to a jaunty, if highly pitched, hello. "I say, Colonel Bean, I should say, I mean, goodness, you startled me rather, how are you, old fish, I had heard you were here, but didn't dream I'd have the pleasure so early in the day -" Etcetera.

You may wonder, if you're a curious sort, what this Bean chap was like, to inspire such whole-hearted terror in a frame as courageous, as doughty, as stalwart and dauntless as the average Monaghan frame. Wonder no longer; he was hair-raising. "Now, Dommie," you are no doubt saying indulgently, "my dear lad, how awful can be? He's just a man, is he not?"

In species, I suppose that Bean might loosely be classified as _homo sapiens_. In saying he is a man, therefore, you would be at least within the realm of reasonable supposition. It is in that persnickety and erring adjective "just" that your sentence will have gone astray.

Bean's size could be loosely estimated at eight feet, give or take; his body was leanly fleshed out with the appropriate amount of poundage, roughly equal in musculature to a Bengal tiger, wolf, or any other large predator you care to name which has green eyes, a superfluity of sharp teeth, and a sublime if panic-inducing sort of lazy grace.

He snagged me effortlessly, gripping my upper arms tightly as he backed me against the nearest paneled wall; in the meantime I chattered on in an attempt to prevent myself wetting myself. "Topping weather we seem to be having, I was thinking of taking a stroll, a 'walk abroad in the snowy day' and all that rot -"

"Shut up," he said, pushing his square-jawed face right into mine.

"Oh rather," I squeaked. The paneling was causing a tiny amount of discomfort to my skull, shoulderblades, arse, and so on, but I was strangely disinclined to lodge a protest.

"Monaghan," he said again; he appeared to be having trouble formulating just what he wanted to say, and I felt sympathetic, really - how often have I looked at Boyd's delectable features and felt much the same? I waited patiently, therefore, feeling the intricately carved wood pressing its curlicues and leaves indelibly into the flesh of my rearmost sections. He breathed in and out heavily several times and then found the words he was searching for: "Monaghan, I think I shall have to kill you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I perched on the edge of a sofa and mopped the b. with a trembling h.

I can attest to the truth of the supposition that those upon the brink of death see their lives pass before their eyes; indeed, mine did so, and was only remarkable in its sad unremarkability. I had no time to ponder on this, however, beyond a brief flash of chagrin that I had never managed to get my hands into Boyd's flawlessly pressed trousers or his into mine, because Bean, having got so far, shook me in much the same manner a terrier shakes a rat. My musings upon Boyd's unattained charms, therefore, were cut short due to my head rattling alarmingly back and forth.

"What do you say to that?" Bean asked me next, ceasing to whisk me like a recalcitrant egg.

"I, ah - hmm. I'd rather you didn't?" I whinnied. _Talking, talking, must keep him talking_; perhaps if we chatted gaily on for a few minutes someone would happen along, and surely he wouldn't defenestrate me in front of witnesses. I hoped.

"I don't know," he mused, pressing me painfully into the wainscoting again. "I've heard you're engaged to Liv, and the thought of her being hurt in the slightest way, as she doubtless would be if wed to an award-winning booby like yourself, puts me right over the edge."

"I've no desire in the world to injure Liv's feelings," I wheezed with the hand upon the heart, so to speak. Really, of course, my hands were plucking ineffectually at Bean's sleeves.

He gazed at the wall behind my head as though deep in pensive thought. "Yes, yes. But you will, Monaghan, because you're not exactly her type." His frankly liquefying green eyes suddenly focused sharply upon me. "_Are you?_" His fingers tightened in my flesh and I remembered, suddenly, that old Bean, back in the school days when he'd been called Kidney rather than Colonel, had been one of those upperclassmen, high above me in rank and years, who frolicked (albeit sullenly, on his part) in the locker rooms after a football game or such. Goodness. Perhaps that was why his engagement to Liv had ended...

This line of thinking, while fascinating, was not really germane to the crisis at hand, however. I summoned up the Monaghan wit for a sparkling reply: "A rather rummy kind of question to try and answer off the cuff," I managed, thinking as quickly as I could - the wheels were spinning and I fancied I smelled burnt ganglions. "If you'd like her back I'd be happy to help you out there, old school chum," I added.

"No, no." He absently flexed his fingers and my eyes rolled back in my head. Bit painful, that. "I don't want her back. But I don't want her hurt either. And you - you prancing milksop nancy-boy poofter pantywaist - you will certainly not do her any good." I wanted to point out that she would certainly not do _me_ any good, either, so his accusation was somewhat one-sided, but Bean's eyes gleamed fanatically and his grip tightened again. I was preparing to meet my Maker when an _ex machina_ in the startling form of a servant _deus_ed onto the scene.

"Colonel," this vision in spats said. Strong, thick fingers pulled gently at Bean's shoulders, and Bean, amazing as it seems, actually let go my arms without demur. As he backed away I got a better look at my rescuer. About thirteen stone of dark-haired, muscular manservant greeted my gaze, his pale eyes fixed on Bean's savage visage as he peeled him from me like so much flypaper. "Now look, Colonel, you can't go exciting yourself thuswise," came a soothing Cockney voice as he turned the beast toward him, making chickenlike clucking sounds as he smoothed the rumpled suit jacket. "Remember what the doctor said about your temper, you must be careful not to overexert yourself. Does you no good at all. Now why don't you pop up to your room and I'll bring you a bite to eat like, alright Colonel?"

I watched with astonishment as Bean shrank from eight feet to about seven, his frenzied expression fading to something, if not quite human, then at least akin to it. "Perhaps you're right, Serkis," he murmured, stumping away down the hall.

Serkis, if such was really his incredible name, watched him go and then turned to me with an apologetic leer. "So sorry, there, Mr. Monaghan. I daresay you've known the Colonel longer than I, you know how carried away he can get. He'll be fine once he gets his nosh."

I gaped at him until he seemed to shimmer before my eyes and disappear - apparently he shared Boyd's uncanny ability to vanish - then I sagged weakly against the wall I had so nearly been osmosisized into.

Where in the world was Boyd? The day was turning into a regular minefield and I longed for just a glimpse of his rosy face and limpid eyes; my desire to speak to Lord Holm, never what you might call high, had ebbed to such singularly low levels that I felt my heart sloshing about somewhere in my boots. Not that I was really wearing boots, because morning attire does not include boots unless you happen to be an equine-loving fanatic like Miss Otto, which Dommie Monaghan does not happen to be. But speaking in a purely metaphorical sense, my heart was, indeed, sloshing about in my boots. My soul longed for congress with Boyd's - a mere sneaking glimpse of him, an overheard snatch of song hummed under his breath, perhaps - oh, perhaps - a small smile bestowed upon me... I sighed.

Boyd was doubtless hard at work in the bowels of the house, and if I didn't face Lord Holm I would have to face Liv, so I once again girded up the old loins to beard the lion in his den. Right after a quick brandy and soda bracer, light on the soda, heavy on the brandy.

~*~*~*~

Lord Ian was found, after inquiries with a housemaid, in the library with a thick tome and a cup of coffee by his hand. I sidled in diffidently and pasted a gooey simper on the old mug. Lord Ian frowned at me. "Can I help you, Mr. Monaghan?"

Really he wasn't such a bad old blighter. If he hadn't sicced his deuced offspring on me and thereby forced me to act loonier than a bag of cats, we might have quite liked one another. Well, as they say, under different circumstances and all that rot, and now we were down to brass tacks. I perched on the edge of a sofa and mopped the b. with a trembling h.

"I say, m'Lord. How are you this morning?"

"Nearly noon, isn't it?" He favoured me with what you might call a gimlet eye. "Bit late to be facing the day."

"Oh, rather, been up for ever so long, you know, just popped in for a bite of breakfast, had a quick natter with Colonel Bean in the hall there." That's when the throat closed up, I'm afraid.

"Did you now?" Lord Ian raised one shaggy eyebrow skeptically. "I was quite sorry to lose him as a potential son-in-law," he said.

I forced air though the passages with a sound like an express train. "Well, you know how it is with these girls today," I blathered. "Light as a feather, settling their fancy on one chap and then another." I took a deep breath. "Speaking of which."

"Yes?"

"Well, ah. Hm. You see, Miss Olivia came to see me yesterday. And she told me about the unfortunate, ah, derailment of her planned nuptials with the Colonel. And she - and I -" Blast! _She bloody well steamrolled me into an engagement which I don't desire any more than you do, m'Lord, so please please please help me get out of it_. "She and I are engaged again is the long and short of it. My Lord."

"Mister Monaghan." His voice was chilly, rather. Reminded one of penguins. "My daughter knows, as do I, that your - how shall I say it? Your mental delicacy does not allow you to become involved in such romantic entanglements."

_I don't want them!_ my whole being cried out. _Not with anyone but a certain handsome Scot!_ But I had a part to play. "I've received treatment," I said. "Quite a lot, you see, and so really, at the moment, there's no reason that I can't make Liv quite. Erm. Happy." I nearly laughed hysterically, but the thought that Boyd would find a way out of the difficulty buoyed me up and I squelched down the absurdity of the whole idea and faced Lord Ian with aplomb.

Lord Ian was breathing rather heavily through his nose. "I see." He stared at me. "And Liv is in favour of this match."

"All for it." I tried to smile brightly, but I am afraid it wasn't one of my better efforts; Lord Ian snorted and rang the bell by his elbow.

"We shall see," he muttered, then spoke right to me. "Just you settle in with a book, why don't you, and we'll call Liv in and see what this nonsense is all about."

I did, of course, wandering round the shelves till I found some rubbish or other to stare at as I sat in a chair across from the old trout; I was about as relaxed as a well-wound lute string. A manservant was sent to find Liv, and she hobbled into the library approximately eight thousand years later.

"Daddy," she said happily, whanging him in the knee with a crutch. "So Dommie's told you all about the _joyous_ news?"

His nostrils flared alarmingly. "So it's true then? You really want to marry this - this - _this?_" He massaged his leg and glared at me as though _I_ were the crutch-wielding menace to society.

"Oh, I do. Dommie's _lovely_, he'll make a wonderful husband." Her eyes glowed, her face beamed, her crutches flew in every direction, taking out figurines and vases and stray servants like a sharpshooter.

"Right then, right then!" Lord Ian finally appeared to recognize his danger. "Very well!" He skipped away and made a break for the door. "I'll just leave you two alone - Dominic, if I may call you so, you can help Liv to the dining room." For the lunch bell had just gone. "I'll just dash ahead and see that they've a chair ready for you," and dash he did, making impressive speed for an older gentleman.

It was left up to me and the unfortunate manservant - never did get his name, poor blighter - to herd Liv and her arsenal of weaponry toward the dining room. She chattered on about destiny and fate and _dear goodness me, can't you fellows help a girl out at all_, and he and I ducked and cringed and bit down on some pretty rummy phrases as we were given the once over.

We'd got all the way to the door when Miranda charged in.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she growled. "All men are hopeless," and saying so, she neatly ducked under a flying crutch, tossed it away, caught Liv as she swayed, and helped her out of the room, all without a scratch and with a tender expression on her heretofore fierce face.

"I'll be getting back to the kitchen," my friend said, rubbing his elbow and head simultaneously.

"Oh, ah," I agreed, and scooped up the abandoned crutch. I limped along after the two entwined girls, watching thoughtfully as Miranda squeezed Liv quite chummily. And quite low on the old waist, don't you know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What ho, Boyd. Any luck on the sticky situation?"

Luncheon was a bust, the sad ruin of a thousand fruitful hopes as the cove says. The spread was fine, no doubt about that, but I couldn't really get my nose down to it properly, what with Liv and Wood simpering at me and Miranda glaring at me and Lord Ian sighing without looking at me and Bean trying to kill me, apparently, with his bare eyes. Bloomers was the only one of the lot I could stomach at all - he didn't take his eyes off Doodle even once, and occasionally jabbed himself in the chin with his fork.

As soon as I decently could I sprinted for the haven of my room. I closed the door and leaned back against it, relief writ large, no doubt, upon my features. My eyes slid shut and I sighed heavily.

"Sir?"

I didn't move, though my heart did give a bit of a flutter. "Boyd," I said, and opened the old peepers to have a look. He had a tumbler on a salver and a sympathetic expression, the second easily as refreshing as the first.

I knocked back the drink and ambled further into the room. "What ho, Boyd. Any luck on the sticky situation?" I confess my knees weakened a bit at this daring utterance. _Sticky. Boyd._

"I haven't come up with a sastisfactory solution yet, sir, I am afraid." He straightened the decanters on the sideboard with light clinks, his back turned. "I have put several inquiries into train, however, and I hope that one or more of them will bear fruit."

"Well, I jolly well hope so," I said, sinking onto the settee. "There's been a dreadful lot of developments since I saw you last." Saying so, I brought him up to speed on recent events, including Miranda's resentment, Colonel Bean's resentment, his subsequent peeling-off by the manservant Serkis, Lord Ian's resentment, Liv's foaming-at-the-mouth crutches and subsequent peeling-off by Miranda, and Miranda's surreptitious squeeze of Liv's backside. I touched briefly on the (dis)pleasures of lunch and concluded by looking hopefully at Boyd to gauge whether any of this had jarred the thinking processes into producing a feast of some sort.

Certainly his fair brow was corrugated with thought; he leaned slightly against the drinks table, hands clasped before him and green eyes gazing into the distance, obviously considering my information. "All very intriguing," he said at last, but nothing more.

"But blast it, Boyd, what am I to _do?_ I come to you on my knees -" a fit of coughing seized me here. "Metaphorically speaking of course." _Unless you really want me on my knees, in which case here, please do allow me..._

"I appreciate your faith, sir," he replied, smiling at me. A smile from Boyd - ah. Better than patented remedies. "I am afraid only time will knit the ravelled sleeve of care in this case - time to ponder and plan."

I grumbled a bit but accepted the truth of his words. A knock upon the portal interrupted our colloquy, and Boyd glided across to open it. I heard murmuring, and then he turned to me. "Young Lord Bloom and Mr. Wood desire your company, sir. Shall I grant them entrance, or are you still feeling out of spirits?"

I raised my eyebrows. That slight hint of chill, that barely detectable note of disapproval... I recalled his icy tone when speaking to Doodle last night and thought, _what the hell_. "I can face them for a few minutes, I suppose." Boyd nodded, the tiniest dip of his head, and opened the door. Wood and Bloomers trotted obediently in, and Boyd crossed to stand rigidly before the wardrobe.

Bloomers was in fine fettle, swanking in and getting to the point immediately. "I say, Dommie, Doodle here had the idea that we should go and walk about the grounds a bit, enjoy the sunshine and snow and such."

"There's a ruin," Wood added, blue eyes guileless and charming. "Like a maze, Miss Otto said, all little dark rooms and no roof and places to get lost in."

"Sounds jolly, eh?" Bloomers was mooning at Wood, and Wood was leering at me, and Boyd was above it all, staring at some point just over my shoulder.

"Oh, ah. Yes, I suppose so. Fresh air might brace the soul, what? Let me get my warm-weather gear slung about the old limbs and I'll be down in a jiff." I shooed the chaps out the door and went about the business of changing into outdoor clothing, assisted by a silent Boyd. "Might be just the thing, eh, Boyd?" A miniscule bow as he shoved my feet into boots. "Crisp, clean air, a look at some ancient hulk or other." A slight sniff. "Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang and all that rot, what?" Encumbered all round with coats and boots and scarves and caps and gloves and such, I stood outside the door.

"Certainly, sir. Have an enjoyable walk." And Boyd closed the panel on my visage with a quiet little click.

I shivered. Prize-winning git, Dominic Monaghan.

~*~*~*~

Now, I could go into the gory details of our little jaunt, but I won't. Suffice it to say that the pendulum of my heart swung lower and lower, thinking about Boyd's offended silence. Added to this agony were fresh torments from Bloomers, who seemed to believe that the way into Doodle's heart lay in making a prize ass of himself, and from Doodle, who seemed to believe that the way into my trousers lay in various techniques of ambushing me. When I could finally bear their distressing antics no longer, I suggested a boyish game of hide and seek, sent them off to hide, and made for the house at a pace that would have astonished those earnest do-gooders who refer to my class as the "idle" rich. Idle indeed.

I rounded the house at a fair clip only to be confronted by a sight that chilled the blood - beyond of course, its already chilled state, by the weather and recent events and so on and so forth. It was Liv and Miranda, bundled about in furs (Liv) and workmanlike coat and scarf (Miranda). And damn and blast if they hadn't already seen me.

"Yoicks, tally-ho," Miranda hallooed with a grin, referring, one must assume, to my headlong pace. I skidded to a halt and simpered at the ladies, trying to still my heaving breast, wondering if a spot of heart attack would spare me from a conversation. "Where's the fire, Dommie old boy?" Miranda asked, and I dismissed the heart attack as being fruitless, and instead blathered out the first thought that entered my head.

"Bit of a risky enterprise with the old sticks, what?" I said, gesturing to Liv's crutches.

"Oh no, I'm _fine_ with Mirrie here to help me," Liv burbled, beaming at her. "We were just taking a turn round the stables. Would you like to accompany us?"

Mirrie? Had Liv called Miranda _Mirrie?_ I was gaping like a halibut, admittedly, and thus it was that I was swept up in their wake.

I trudged along at what I hoped was a safe distance, and mused upon a phrase Boyd had bestowed on me upon a different occasion, strangely apropos to this one - all about mortals growing swiftly in misfortune or somesuch sentiment. I felt my misfortune burgeoning by leaps and bounds, and perhaps that explains the fact that when Liv whirled gaily to speak with me, I made no move to defend myself and fell beneath the onslaught of her fatal helpmetes so easily.

Next thing I knew I was staring blankly at the sky, wondering if those clouds there presaged snow and _look, that one resembles a cow creamer, a bit_. If the cow had wings, though what a cow creamer would need with wings escaped me - perhaps they would be functional as a splash guard? My view of the celestial winged cow creamer was cut off by Miranda's interested face, alarmingly close.

"Quite a knock she's given you, Dommie, you young pimple. Here, up you go," and saying so, she heaved me to my feet at a rate that had clouds and trees and ground and she and Liv fairly spinning. She gripped my arms in a vise that bore an uncanny resemblance to Bean's earlier ministrations, holding me upright by main force until I could stand straight on my own. "Right then, you'll be fine - though Liv here does pack quite a punch, don't she?" She pursed her lips coquettishly at said bird, and I swayed in amaze. Miranda's sharp eyes pinned me again. "You do look something white. Perhaps you should get to the kitchen and have a bag of ice slapped on the old block."

Liv hobbled up and I backed away, ripping my arm from Miranda's hold. "Maybe we should go with him, Mirrie," Liv chirped. "What if he falls down again?"

"No!" I held my hands up, pretending they weren't trembling and modulating my tone slightly - a flock of magpies had sprung up from a nearby dryad at my shrill negation. "I'm fine. Really. Fine." I continued to back away. "Ice is a spiffing idea, friend of my youth, and I'll hurry right down to do that. Thank you. Thank you." I turned tail and fled, wincing as my head throbbed in time with my hurried footsteps.

~*~*~*~

Kitchens, kitchens. My head did hurt, a nice gentle whack on the noggin Liv'd given me. Perhaps I could pinch a towel of ice and then have Boyd hold it to my fevered brow. Not that I was likely to calm down with Boyd leaning tenderly over me, one hand holding the towel in place, the other, perhaps, on my shoulder, warm and steadying and gentle and firm... This wasn't making walking any simpler.

I popped into the kitchen and unswathed the body, then sweet-talked a maid into assisting me. Sitting on the fender by the fire while she bustled off to the icebox, I drifted into absent reverie, only to be pulled back into consciousness by a name that I loved.

"...Boyd," one lass said to another, her tone one of worry and fretting. My ears sharpened, I leaned slightly to the right, keeping my eyes nonchalantly upon the ceiling. The other servant spoke:

"I 'eard 'e was in a right taking - saw 'im a moment ago as angry as a bull, muttering that 'e shouldn't've opened 'is mouth and now 'e'd 'ave to find that bleeding valet and put paid to 'im..." Who was the "he"? Was Boyd threatening a valet's life? Or was Boyd the gentleman's gentleman in mortal peril? My heart sped at the terrible thought, and I strained to hear more; conversation had shifted back to the young laundress I'd first heard:

"...and puir Mr. Boyd not knowin' a thing about it, fair scares me - if I had that great brute Serkis after me I'd hide me head till he'd slept off the drink, I would. Has anyone seen Mr. Boyd?"

"Millicent saw 'im by the emerald parlour not so long ago, but I dursent go out there meself."

"Boyd!" my soul cried out, and I leaped up, forgetting about my head and the ice in my haste to protect my darling William. I sped from the kitchen on wings born of love, racing through the hallways toward the aforementioned emerald parlour, a sort of writing-desk-containing, settee-inhabited room toward the back of the house.

My efforts were not in vain - I spied him, drifting sedately through the corridor ahead of me. "Boyd!" I called, just as I heard a threatening rumble from a guest room to my right. I whirred past the door and spared a glance, catching Serkis just turning from a heated search of the room. Feet twinkling nimbly, I slammed the door in his face, zipped ahead to Boyd, grasped his arm and pulled him into the nearest unoccupied room, some sort of musical chamber, it appeared. I heard a thumping, fumbling tread outside the door and - ignoring Boyd's extremely startled "Sir!" and almost ungraceful pirouette - yanked the delicious Scot into a closet with me, shutting the door just as Serkis slammed open the door from the hall.

The closet, as luck would have it, was one of those louvred affairs that lets plenty of light in and still, happily, conceals any hide-and-seekers in a blessedly efficient manner. I put my hand gently over Boyd's mouth to hush him - hand! Boyd! Mouth! - and placed my eye to a crack. Serkis was stamping about the room in a muscular and terrifying way, muttering. Boyd carefully removed my hand from his face - _ballocks!_ \- and put his own eye to the door, his head - praise be! - just beside my own. As Serkis circled near us I could make out his words:

"Bloody interfering Scot with his bloody whisky and bloody questions and bloody insinuations, should never have - damnation - stupid bloody prat opening my big stupid gob and I'll have to kill him before he can tell anyone, that's all..." This blood-curdling monologue trailed away, and Boyd and I watched, enthralled, as Serkis stood in the open door, meticulously surveying the scene. His eye fell upon the closet - he took one step toward us - he fell, slumping noisily to the floor, directly across the doorway.

"Is he dead?" I whispered, once a small eternity had made me acutely aware of Boyd's quietly breathing presence beside me. Close beside me. In the dark. In a confined place. I had to say something, didn't I, or else just turn and snog the poor lovely delectable Scot until we both breathed rather loudly. Which seemed a bad idea, as perhaps he was still upset with my earlier behavior.

"Nae, he's no' dead." Boyd's acent was noticeably thicker, and I surprised a look of grim satisfaction upon his features before he drew back from the revealing light striping through the slats. "Dead drunk, aye. Sir." He added the title and then turned toward me slightly. "Tha's my doing and Ah hope you dunnae mind."

"Shall we try to leave?" I whispered.

Boyd peered out the crack again at Serkis's prone figure. "I wouldnae. Have to go over him, and while he's not likely to waken, be a fair terrible thing 'f he did." He squinted at me and swayed just a tad - exhaustion replacing fright, one presumed. "When he wakes up he'll be docile as a lamb and in a fair way to forgetting everything he said."

"How do you know?" If Boyd had told me that he had divined this intelligence through his uncanny abilities at paranormal phenomena, including mind-reading, I would not have been at all surprised.

"He told me so himself," was the faintly disappointing answer. "Ah got him drunk as a lord, asked him a few wee questions, and then took m'self away. No' far enough though, sir, and I thank you for saving me." His eyes gleamed at me and I coughed nervously, wondering if the same dim light that allowed me to see his jade green eyes would allow him to see my gravity-defying erection.

"Say nothing about it, Boyd, you've fished me from the soup so many times that this in no way begins to pay off my debt to you."

"I endeavor to please," Boyd breathed, two millimeters or so away.

"I - ah." Oh, blast. "Why did you get him schnockered?" My heart was racing much too quickly, and my lungs felt frightfully busy, don't you know.

"Wanted him to tell me about the Colonel, sir. And Miss Holm. And all tha'."

"And did he?"

"Oh, aye. Sad tale, really. Two soldiers in a tight spot, faraway corner of the Empire. Serkis was the Colonel's batman - valet, like, sir." I nodded, trying to pay attention. Trying not to rip open my shirt and offer myself to him like a cheap trollop in a Byzantine whorehouse. Though that fantasy had potential - Monaghan! Pull it together!

"So there was just the one time, you see sir," Boyd was saying. "But the Colonel's always after him for more, but Serkis is a good man, really. Knows his place, and as long as he's the Colonel's servant he'll never touch him again, no matter how the Colonel wants him to. He's a good man," Boyd repeated, looking with a strange intensity at the corpse in the doorway.

"So he - and Bean - ?" The mind boggled. No wonder Bean had been relieved when Liv threw him the glove, what? "And never since that once, in India?"

"No sir. Though -" Boyd leaned confidentially close - "twice he has allowed the Colonel to kiss him, when he was in his cups." Boyd's voice was warm. "He doesnae remember it, sir, but the Colonel tells him about it." Velvety rough and honeyed, his breath caressing upon my cheek, scented sweetly by bergamot and...

Whisky?

"Boyd? Are you pickled?"

He didn't answer me immediately, sliding down instead to sit on the floor. I followed suit, since we appeared to be in for a long wait, if Serkis's contented snores were any indication. Of course Boyd was taken in drink, he'd never have fallen so greatly from formality as to sit before me if he were sober.

"I had to drink alongside him, sir," Boyd said eventually. "I didnae think I would get really pissed, if I may use a vulgar expression. The day an Englishman can outdrink a Scot..." He snorted to register his opinion of this unlikely turn of affairs. "I doan want you to think hard of me, sir, Mr. Monaghan." He leaned close to me and I smelt his intoxicated, intoxicating scent again. His eyes glittered a little, and the quick dart of his pink tongue, moistening his lips, nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"I - I could never think anything but good of you, Boyd," I stuttered. "You are a paragon in every field." I swallowed.

We sat in silence for a time then; I tried to focus on thoughts that would subdue Dommie Junior down there, but it was a hopeless cause. "Erm. Boyd." Perhaps I could distract myself.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think what you learned is useful?" I had to say something.

His head fell to one side. "Oh, aye, sir. I can think of any number of ways it could be so."

Silence.

"Would you care - could you share some of those ways?"

Silence.

"Boyd?"

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard." He leaned closer to me, which considering that only a few smallish sardines would have fit into the closet with us meant that we were suddenly very cosy indeed. "Some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word."

"What's that, Boyd?" Beneath the whisky and tea scent was soap and sweat - _Jesus god in heaven help me_ \- and I could feel his knee press against my thigh.

"Oscar Wilde, sir." The light through the door fell across his face in narrow strips of illumination. "Ballad of Reading Gaol. He went to gaol for buggery, did you know, sir?"

"Oh, ah. No. I mean, yes, I suppose -" _please let me go to gaol, pleasepleaseplease, only let me commit the crime and let it be with this man right here_.

"The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword." Boyd lifted his hand and touched my cheek, then brushed his fingers delicately along my cheekbone, through my hair and to the back of my head. He leaned closer yet.

"William," I whispered.

He kissed me, a sure, firm pressure of his lips upon mine, followed soon by openness, moisture, heat, followed soon by the taste of his tongue, seeking mine gently and inexorably, so that I opened my mouth and moaned into his, into that dark sweet space where hotwetdeep all mingled and met and tangled moistly.

"Dominic," he said softly, and then -

Then he was out cold.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...My mind, never my most powerful organ if truth be told, reeled as I tried to encompass what the next step in this merry jig might be.

So there I sat in the dark with a lapful of softly snoring Scotsman. The same Scotsman I'd loved and lusted after for lo, these many years, the selfsame man who had cared for me, rescued me, advised me, and haunted my waking and sleeping hours with his adroit grace, brilliant intellect, and exquisite arse. He had quoted Oscar Wilde. He had heard me break the silent habit of years to call him by his Christian name. He had kissed me - firm, certain, gentle and commanding, and my mouth still tingled with the taste and pressure of his - and he had called me Dominic.

And then of course he had leaned blissfully against me and apparently gone to sleep, due to a slight excess of the juice of the bless'd grape. Or bless'd grain in this case.

And the bloody bollocksed stupid fist-clenching trout-headed arse-wiping Code of the Monaghans prevented me absolutely molesting him in his unconscious state. Prevented me, really, from doing more than sighing heavily, shifting on my buttocks in a vain attempt to ease my achingly stiff erection, and stroking his hair.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Heaven knows that before that kiss, I would have been thrilled beyond scientific measure to run my fingers through his fine, soft hair, to have him drool gently upon my waistcoat and - oh great merciful saints - wriggle his warm weight even closer to me, arms limply draped about my middle as his cheek and nose pressed into my thorax.

But there was the bally rub, one must admit - _before that kiss_. Before that kiss I had never done more (outside the fantasies of my bath or lonely bed) than shiver to feel his hand accidentally stroke my arm as he bunged me into the soup and tails, or thrill to the brush of his fingers as I accepted one of his marvelous brandy and sodas. That kiss - that kiss which defied superlatives and had left me panting here in the dark - had taken me right past contentment with my lot in life to pretty urgent discontent. To put it another way, how was I supposed to stay down on the farm, now that I'd seen Paree? I was as far beyond my depth as that Cardinal cove in Shakespeare's sea of glory, and my mind, never my most powerful organ if truth be told, reeled as I tried to encompass what the next step in this merry jig might be.

My thoughts were interrupted by outside influences; Serkis snored, snorted, and abruptly sat up. He was still obviously tanked to the gills, but had apparently forgotten his quest to do mortal harm to Boyd's edible frame, for he muttered something to himself, bunged into the doorframe, and wandered away, rubbing his head as I watched with my eye to the closet door.

Which left the coast clear, but I found myself strangely reluctant to stir. Well, not strangely, really - I was in a prime position here, let's not forget. But would Boyd be so happy to recognize the position as such upon regaining his compos mentos? Dim-witted though I may be, even I could see that Boyd might possibly be a wee bit embarrassed to come to with his nose about two buttons down from my neck and his body curled into my lap. What to do?

I decided that discretion would be the better part of valour in this particular case, as in others, and with a whimper of regret, removed him from my frame. It was not a simple task, as he clung in rather the manner of a particularly determined limpet, nuzzling into my ribs and making the kinds of soft sounds that would provide me with fantasy material for _years_.

Finally, though, the goal was achieved, and I sat back and waited, examining him minutely as he slept. The bally conscience tried to raise a quibble on this score, but I squashed it like a mosquito, with vigour and delight. At least - I mentally berated the damned thing - I was not _actually_ caressing him. I was not slipping my hand beneath his starched dickey to touch warm smooth skin; I was not running my palm along his woollen-clad thigh, toward that warm, doubtless delectable juncture of leg and pelvis... My conscience piped right down, though Dommie Junior had a few words to say on the topic. I ignored him and entertained myself with watching Boyd. He slept neatly, lips and eyes serenely closed, though his cupie-bow mouth pursed occasionally, as in thought.

As soon as I saw his brow crease and eyelids tighten, as soon as he began to show signs of joining me in the mortal realm again, I drew on my years of acting in evening revues and village treats. I took a deep breath and reached over to shake his shoulder gently.

"I say, Boyd. Look, Serkis has just got up and left - alley alley all-in-free and so on."

Boyd's eyes fluttered open - have I mentioned his eyelashes? They deserve sonnets, truly - and he gazed blankly at me for a moment. I was too wrought up to meet his gaze, so I stumbled to my feet, giving him a moment to compose himself. From the corner of my eye I saw him go red and then white, and from thence to an interesting shade of green.

He struggled gamely to his feet, though. "I apologize, sir."

Was he apologizing for the kiss? Or for going horizontal? Or for standing up after I had just now? "Oh, ah. Say nothing of it, Boyd. I imagine it was rather stressful, having Serkis out for your blood." I'd take it as the nap. Except that that left us back where we'd begun, before that kiss, and then again Boyd might believe I didn't want to talk about the kiss, when of course I did, though talking wasn't what I really wanted to do at all, was it? I stepped out of the closet, trying not to look at him, miserable in every pore. "You still look knackered, old son - why don't you take some time for yourself to restore the spirits, what?"

"Thank you, sir." His step was unwavering, though his facial colour still most closely resembled clotted cream. He passed me and then turned. "I apologize for my state, sir. I shall be back to my old self quite soon, I assure you." His accent was still heavy, but expression had fled from his smooth visage and it was the old Boyd who regarded me with polite expectation.

I -" oh blast! Blast blast blast! I felt as though my heart was being strained through cheesecloth. "Very good, then, Boyd. Thank you for all your care. For -" _kissing me, finally_ \- "all the care you take of me."

"It is my pleasure, sir." He made for the door, turning upon the threshhold. "And sir?"

"Yes, Boyd?" O hope! the lover's staff that I might go forth with or somesuch!

"Should you find Colonel Bean importunate, a word about the closeness soldiers develop while in the field, followed by an inquiry after Mr. Serkis, should calm him nicely."

"Oh." Blasted and withered hope. "Yes, certainly. Thank you, Boyd. Brilliant as usual." And if my smile looked slightly sickly, I assure you that I could not contain my misery any better.

"Thank you, sir." And he was gone.

I stood alone for a moment, seething like a boiling tea kettle with frustration and despair, before I exited the room, craving only solitude.

There were Liv and Miranda, curse them to the lowest depths of some Dantean hell.

"Dommie darling!" Liv fluted, swinging over to me on the crutches. I morosely avoided a blow and watched as Miranda, never far behind, scowled up to join us. "How is your head, dearest?"

"Pounding, thank you, and I'm just off to have a soak and a lie-down," I snapped. "Excuse me, please." I noted with satisfaction how her enormous blue eyes began to swim. Miranda said something rather sharpish and to the point, and then I was away, dashing up the stairs at a pace no gimpy gawd-help-us could think of matching.

Halfway down the corridor I was confronted by Bean, who leapt suddenly out at me. "Monaghan!" he roared.

"Oh, shut it Bean," I roared right back without breaking stride, "or I'll tell the bloody gossip columnists all about your undying love for your manservant Serkis." He recoiled and I rounded another corner, feeling a sort of grim joy welling up in my heart.

Anyone else?

Apparently so, for Bloomers was waiting in my room, looking sad and thin and pathetic. "I say, Dommie," he began, and before he'd finished I had him on his feet and halfway through the door.

"Not now, Bloomers you old ass, absolutely not now, I've thought of nothing to further your cause, but I can tell you this." I faced him squarely and poked him in the chest. "You can rethink your original assumptions about that young American, and rethink them well, and stop acting like such a prize booby. That'll be a start." And I shut the door.

I threw myself on the bed, only wishing that Doodle would pop out of the wardrobe so I could savage him along with everyone else.

I lay there bubbling angrily for a while, and then... I sniffled myself to sleep, shirt and trousers and shoes all still on.

~*~*~*~

"You really should have called me, sir."

The room was dim, winter twilight creeping in about the curtains, and I woke to feel Boyd settling me gently upright and divesting me of my jacket. I scrubbed hastily at my face and blinked a few times, feeling decidedly more like a thinking beast than I had before. "How's the old bean, Boyd?" I ventured to say.

He slid the offending garment from me and turned to hang it. "Quite up to par, thank you for enquiring, sir." He looked as though our entire closeted tete-a-tete had never occurred, but I braced the beating heart - it had, and I knew it. "The cocktail hour is all but over, sir, and the dinner bell but a few moments away; I thought you might be hungry after your earlier exertions -" had he paused? Was that a hesitant beat? - "and so I took the liberty of waking you."

"I'm deuced glad you did, Boyd, I've an appetite like the lions in the Tower," I said, surprised to find it true. "I don't suppose there's time for a quick soaking of the bones?" I began divesting myself of my crumpled clothing in preparation for the full dog and pony.

He turned back to me, his face pale and composed. "I'm afraid not, sir. Perhaps before you retire this evening."

"Jolly good then, Boyd." I stood and he began to dress me, nimble fingers holding shirt, dickey, waistcoat, etcetera just as usual, but I fancied his hands were kinder and gentler than before. Probably just my imagination, but I tidied the thought away for future musing. "I say, my good man, I took your advice with Colonel Bean."

"Did you, sir?"

"Worked like a pip, I'm chuffed to report. First I ticked off the revolting Liv, then the revolting Bean, then the revolting Bloomers, and then I slept like a baby of the calmer sort and now I must say I feel quite refreshed." I lifted my chin to allow him to tie the whirligig.

"I am pleased to hear it, sir." He finished the tie and straightened it carefully, knuckles brushing my neck in a way that made the heart pound and the trousers tighten. "What occurred with Miss Holm and Lord Bloom?"

I told him about my encounters. "I do feel a bit ashamed about Liv, do you know. Bit rummy, snapping at a girl like that. I'll apologize right off I see her, but it did ease the straits amazingly."

"No doubt, sir. Your jacket."

I slid my arms in and turned to face him. "Am I presentable?"

"Well beyond presentable, I should say, sir. I mean to say -" Boyd flushed, he _did!_ "Ahem. If I may, I would venture to suggest..."

I closed my mouth with a snap, feeling the old joie-de-vivre springing up and coshing it violently. So he flushed. Do be quiet, Dommie Junior. Pipe down there. "Yes, of course, Boyd. Go on."

"If I may be so bold, sir, you might invite young Lord Bloom and Mr. Wood up for a drink after dinner."

"Oh heavens, Boyd, are you certain?"

"I will see to it that Mr. Wood comes up a significant amount of time after Lord Bloom, sir. I would like a chance to hear what he has to say on the topic of his love without the object of such being present." He brushed a speck of dust from my sleeve and stood back.

I chewed this over. "So you want Bloomers to talk without Wood being here?"

"Precisely, sir."

"And you think this will help?"

"I venture to say that it will have a salubrious effect upon the situation as a whole, yes, sir." His hands clasped behind his back, Boyd rocked slightly upon the balls of his feet.

"Well, Boyd, you've never yet thrown me in the soup, so I shall bow to your intellect and do as you say."

"You flatter me, sir."

_I'd rather bugger you, you delicious thing_. "Pish tosh. Now off to the trough, eh, Boyd?"

"As you say, sir. Enjoy your meal."

"And you'll be here afterward?" I couldn't help the slight note of anxiety that crept into my voice.

"Of course."

"Alright then. Pip-pip and so on." I exited the room.

You may be asking yourself what had brought about this strange change in my mood. How had I gone from the fearsome Dominic who had callously driven stakes into the hearts of no fewer than three persons in three minutes, to this jaunty, cheerful cove with the spring in his step and the twinkle in his eye?

I'll tell you. It was memory did the trick.

The fact of the matter undoubtedly was that it was _Boyd_ who had quoted Wilde at _me_. It was Boyd who had called me - oh my heart! - _Dominic_, and Boyd who had touched me and brought my lips to meet his. I could still feel the way his fingers had threaded into my hair, and how his lips had moved upon mine. _In vino veritas_ is what chaps say, and I would find some way to communicate my very real enthusiasm for that kiss - I _would_. So it was that I went to the board with hope in my heart and a song on my lips.

I managed to apologize to Liv with the soup, but she was noticeably chilly about the whole thing. Curious that; I spotted her eying me rather suspiciously throughout the meal, and she and Miranda seemed to be communicating by means of telegraph or something - though they were seated four people apart, a constant flicker of intelligence between them seemed to take place. Could it be that she was rethinking her engagement to me? Better and better. Bloomers had little to say to anyone, and Bean simpered most satisfactorily whenever I happened to catch his eye. Lord Ian looked positively dyspeptic; Lady Vencible and the other ancients at the far end of the table chattered cheerfully enough, but their gaiety did not reach to my end.

Of all the trenchermen setting fork to plate down at the more youthful peninsula of table, only Doodle and I seemed really willing to appreciate the fine art of the chef, and we ate and chatted cheerfully. I made my invitation to him and Bloomers to join me in my room after dinner, and proceeded to stuff myself silly.

Just as we wandered from the table into the smoking room, Boyd poured in, a slip of paper in his hand. I waited expectantly for him to approach, but he drifted to Wood's side and handed him the telegram instead, then floated away.

Doodle bounced up to me. "I've got to make a trunk call," he chirped. "Seems the mater has gotten wind of a rather hefty sum I dropped at the hurdles in November, and wants to have a word with me. I'll be up after I've soothed the savage beast." He leaned closer. "And see if you can get rid of Bloomers, will you? I wouldn't mind some quality time alone with you." He leered and vanished.

This must be the diversion promised by Boyd; I sighed and a few moments later Bloomers and I made our way up to the old home away from home. I trusted Boyd implicitly, of course, but I certainly hoped he hadn't got his tails over his head (mmm, lovely image that) over all this. I mean to say, making a party of it with Bloomers was bound to be thick going, and add Doodle to the shaker and it seemed we were in for more of a drag than a jog.

Boyd was waiting for us, standing most properly by the drinks tray, though there were several unfamiliar decanters by his elbow. "Would you care to refresh yourselves?" he asked.

"Brandy and soda for me, Boyd, and be sure to splash the brandy about pretty well, won't you?"

"Certainly, sir. And for you, Lord Bloom?"

Orlando looked rather longingly at the sherry, but sighed. "Have you anything without the demon alcohol, Boyd?"

"Knowing your current aspirations, sir, I took the liberty of procuring some milder libations."

Bloomers rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So you have juice there, you say?"

"Yes, sir. If you will allow me to mix you something, I think you will be pleased with the results."

"Carry on, then, my good fellow." Bloomers sank into a chair with a moan; Boyd busied himself with the drinks. "Dommie, old man, I'm dished, simply dished. I have tried and tried to be kind, gallant, and good, but I cannot get through to Elijah. I'm pining away - pining, I say!"

"Oh, that was very good, friend of my youth, excellent scansion." I crossed my legs and dug my cigarette case from my pocket. Boyd brought us our drinks; mine was a honey of a refreshment, just enough water that the brandy wasn't actually evaporating, Bloomers's the livid red of a tropical sunset - and Boyd leaned to light my fag. I breathed his scent in - soap and tea, all scent of the whisky gone and I wondered if I kissed him right now, really searchingly, with quite a lot of tongue involved, obviously, would I get a lingering taste of it? Then he straightened and the possibility, faint though it had been, was gone.

Bloomers was blathering on about Wood - Doodle this, Doodle that, Elijah, Elijah, heavenly Elijah, and I tuned out but for the occasional "Oh, ah?" and so on. Boyd kept him well-supplied with the blinding fruit juice mixture, and me with brandy and soda, and listened sympathetically, while I mentally catalogued exactly the ways in which I should like to ravish and be ravished by Boyd. William.

I had descended into a pleasurable haze of alcohol- and lust-induced entropy when there came a knock at the door. "Elijah!" Bloomers shrieked, leaping into the air.

"Shall I, sir?"

I waved my hand gently through the air, unsure as to my walking abilities and happy to keep the other hand sensibly in my lap. Boyd granted Wood entrance, and he immediately bounded over and settled on the arm of my chair.

There followed some millennia of torture as Bloom sat in silence and Doodle chattered gaily and slid further and further onto my thigh, until I finally squirmed out from under him and curveted away. "Just need a little refresher," I sang.

Boyd was currently at the sideboard, and I sidled up to him. "What can I procure for you, sir?"

"Have you got a few silk scarves tucked away, suitable for gagging loquacious Americans?"

"No, sir, I am afraid not." Had he nearly smiled? "I am sorry the evening is not proceeding to your enjoyment."

I sighed. "I just wish they would get to the point and discover that they are both filthy dirty perverts and ride off happily into the sunset."

Boyd glanced over my shoulder. "I think if we give them a wee bit of time, your wish may be granted."

I looked. Bloomers had risen to his feet and wandered to where Elijah was perched on my chair. "My god," I said, noticing the expression on Bloomers's face for the first time in ages. "He's pie-eyed, Boyd!"

"Yes, sir." Boyd slid away to hand Bloomers another of the vile red concoctions, returning a moment later; I watched in awe as the young pinhead knocked half back in one go and then leaned down to speak in a low, earnest voice to our foreign visitor.

"An explanation would seem to be wanting, Boyd."

He mixed me a brandy and soda and touched my arm. "I am always happy to serve, sir, but might I suggest that we step into your dressing room for a moment to allow them privacy?"

I stared goggle-eyed as Wood slid one hand up Bloomers's arm, and allowed Boyd to lead me into said chamber.

Not that this was such a task, mind you; I would follow Boyd to the flaming mouth of hell. A dressing room - spacious, dimly lit, reminding one strongly of certain spine-tingling closet encounters - was hardly any effort at all.

"My goodness, we seem to have a running cupboard motif on this visit, don't we, Boyd?" I blathered as he closed the door upon Bloomers and Doodle. I swerved from the topic an instant later when I saw his face go cherry pink. "Now please do tell me, Boyd, what you have been about."

He coughed once, a gentle choking, and spoke. "Certainly, sir. The only problem I saw to pairing Mr. Wood and Lord Bloom was Lord Bloom's insistence upon purity, which he mistakenly believed was required by Mr. Wood's, ahem, spotless character."

"'Gentleman' being a rather loose description, what?"

"As you say, sir."

"Dreadfully sorry, do go on." There was a burst of laughter from without, and Boyd allowed himself a small, pleased smile.

"Very well, sir. In considering how best to gain the confidence of Colonel Bean's manservant -"

"Serkis?"

"Yes, sir. In considering how best to gain Mr. Serkis's confidence, I struck upon the use of alcohol as a... hmm." Boyd cleared his throat. "How shall I put it?" He looked down; he failed to meet my eye; I might almost describe his posture as one of fidgeting. "It serves to lower one's inhibitions," he said finally. I raised one eyebrow and felt my face go hot. "I acquired some rather strong juice from an exotic grocer, mixed it with several powerful forms of liqueur, and served it to Lord Bloom."

There was a sudden shout and fresh sounds of glee from beyond the door, followed, as Boyd and I listened intently (and with a certain amount of rising interest on my part, so to speak) by several loud moans. "It appears to have worked like a charm, Boyd - a heartily good plan."

There was a thud and a high-pitched cry of lust. "The drink is called, one understands, a hurricane. Perhaps now would be a good time to re-establish our presence," Boyd said, his valentine-shaped face a becoming shade of rose.

"I should say so." I moved to the door with him on my heels, then stopped. I laid my forehead against the cool wood. "Boyd."

"Yes?"

I had to know. It wasn't that I was braver than the next chap, for I wasn't; but some madness seemed to seize me then, and the next words I spoke came from some noodleheaded need to just - _know_.

I turned to face him. "Boyd. William -" my heart began to thud - "did you mean it when you kissed me earlier? Because I - I mean this." And ignoring the rising sounds of unbridled passion emitting worryingly from the room outside our secluded haven, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes, yes, you can tell us all about your naked orgy with Orlando another day, Dommie."

His mouth opened in startlement, and for a moment - five heartbeats, not that I was counting at all, mind you - he responded. His hands came up to clasp my arms, his lips went soft and pliable, he sighed and I drowned in warmth, moisture, heat.

And then he broke away and leapt back several steps, staring at me with his eyes wide and green and his face pink as a rose.

"Sir -" he stuttered, just as I cried out, "No!"

We stood still for a few more heartbeats (approximately five thousand four hundred and seventeen, at a loose estimate), until finally Boyd straightened fully, folded his hands before him, and lowered his eyes.

What was I feeling at that moment? Well, it is pretty difficult to describe, really, and I never know just how much detail to insert in these things. On the one hand, I could go on for quite a few syllables about how my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, much like a glass being assaulted by a really determined shrieker at the opera house. I could detail exactly how the misery made my stomach twist sickeningly, how my fingernails dug into my palms in a frenzy of regret and dismay, how my very ankles seemed to curl up in terror.

Or I could simply let you know that it was a jolly rotten feeling altogether, and allow you to draw your own conclusions.

"I am so sorry, Boyd," I managed to say at last. "I hope I have not forever ruined your good opinion of me." I smiled a little, a sickly stretch of the lips at best. "Not that you could ever have had much of one, considering the scrapes you've continually fished me out of."

"Sir." Boyd looked up at me. "There's no need to apologize, and no need at all to speak so. I have done everything I have done out of the utmost respect and affection, and would do it all again five times over." He drew in a deep breath, and I saw with a pang how white his knuckles were where his hands were clasped together. "Under... other circumstances..." He trailed off, his eyes sad and wide open and bright; it was the clearest glimpse I'd yet had of the soul that lay beneath his serene exterior. "Under other circumstances," he repeated, "I would welcome your attentions, sir. I must apologize for my behavior earlier this afternoon - it was inexcusable, and I should have immediately tendered my resignation."

"Which I would just as immediately have thrown out the window as ridiculous," I said hastily.

He looked down again, a small smile flickering and then gone like a candle's flame. "Thank you, sir."

"I cannot do without you, Boyd," I said softly.

"You never shall have to," he replied.

"But...?" A race of blithering idiots, we Monaghans, but if my heart was to be broken, I would have it done thoroughly. I had to hear him _say_ it - I had to hear the negation from his own sweet lips.

"But as long as I am in your service, I can never be more than your gentleman's gentleman, sir." He met my eyes again and I saw the diamant pride behind his words, the iron will and crystalline intellect that could not bend without changing what he was, and what I loved.

"It doesn't matter to me," I whispered.

"I know, sir," he said. "But it does to me."

There seemed nothing left to say, and so we looked at one another for a few more moments and then left the dressing room.

~*~*~*~

The scene that greeted our eyes was distracting enough; it involved more of Bloomers's skin than I had seen since our merrier days at St. Kitt's, enough of Doodle's to last a lifetime, and tangled variations upon such that would have satisfied the most curious voyeur. It was the work of a moment to bundle the newly created lovebirds into their trousers and send them out the door, still attached at the mouth.

Boyd and I puttered around the room quietly, tidying up the frightful mess they'd made - mostly overturned furniture and the like, but that red punch would never come out of the carpet, and I shifted a wing chair accordingly over the stain. Boyd bundled up the stray socks and pants he found and dropped them into the laundry chute, then stood irresolutely at the door. He cleared his throat and I looked up mournfully.

"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" His voice was almost back to normal.

_Your love and devotion for as long as we both shall live_, I thought, but it was half-hearted at best. "No, Boyd, hopefully Bloomers and Wood have provided the last of the evening's entertainment. I think I'll just settle down with some music and a book, don't you know."

"Very good, sir. Please don't hesitate to ring if you should need me again, sir."

_I need you right now. I shall always need you_. "I shan't, Boyd. Thank you."

And he was gone; apparently the stresses of the evening had not affected his ability to disappear like a magician's beautiful assistant.

I considered a bath - I didn't actually need Boyd there to run the water, of course - but the thought of the bath led to thoughts of Boyd and of what I had thought about the last time I'd been in the bath and... I simply couldn't face it. I changed into my pyjamas and dressing gown and put on a phonograph (a new fellow called Duke Ellington, quite the up-and-comer in New York), and then settled into a chair with a fag and a drink and a book.

The music went unheard; the fag burned itself to ashes in my motionless hand. The drink got all watery and warm and the book lay untouched upon the arm of the chair. Mostly I was just sitting, staring into space, trying to figure out what had happened and what I would do next.

I could not be expected to stop loving Boyd; it was as likely as Aunt Philippa deciding I was really a decent chap and not a waste of oxygen, as likely as Bloomers developing a brain, or Wood developing a conscience. It was, in short, improbable at best. I think perhaps I was shocked - shell-shocked, they call it don't they, when something so large and frightening and terrible explodes right beside one? Shell-shocked. I've always been a thick-headed sort of cove, and I rather suspected that it would take some little time for the true misery of the situation to sink into my soul and blight it really completely. Until then I supposed I would sit there in a sort of daze, staring into space and being generally of no use to anyone at all. Well. Of less use even than usual, I should say...

My reverie was interrupted by a timid knock upon the door, followed immediately by a sharp, business-like rapping.

I sighed and stood, tightening the sash on my dressing gown. "I say, Bloomers, Boyd's already put your clothing down the laundry chu - oh. Ah." It was not Bloomers at all; it was Liv and Miranda, and I swallowed my irritation with an effort. "Pardon me, I thought it was someone -"

Miranda breezed in. "Yes, yes, you can tell us all about your naked orgy with Orlando another day, Dommie." I backed away in a hurry as Liv swung into the room, escaping with only a cracked shinbone. Miranda settled herself into a chair - _my_ chair, naturally - and Liv claimed another, the crutches falling in a noisy clatter to one side. "Liv's got something to tell you."

I closed the door. "Yes, won't you come in," I chirruped with patently false cheer, shooting daggers at the back of Liv's head and the front of Miranda's. "Absolutely delighted." What had Boyd meant to do about this? He'd never come up with a plan, but if ever I'd needed one, now was that ever. "Can I fetch either of you lovely ladies something to drink? Sherry? Gin?" Cyanide?

"No, no, none of that," Miranda said, waving her hand. "Come and sit down. Liv, spit it out."

I trudged dejectedly to the indicated Settee of Doom and perched upon it.

"Dommie, first of all I just want to say that I _really do_ care for you," Liv fluttered. She gazed moonily at me with her big glowy eyes all concerned and misty, and I felt a tiny sprig of hope unfurl within my breast. Could she have come here to let the trout off the fishhook?

"And of course I _do_ want to marry you." _Ballocks!_ I sighed. "But I think it only fair - Mirrie and I do -" she glanced telepathically at Miranda - "to do so under _honest_ and _open_ conditions."

What was all this?

Liv hesitated a bit here, and Miranda leapt into the breach - fantastic soldier she would have made, if she hadn't come from the womb with the wrong equipment. "The thing is, Dom, you're about as interested in Liv here as I am in you."

I opened my mouth to say something gallant and protestatory and all that, but my better judgment put in an unexpected appearance here - where had the damned thing _been?_ \- and I merely shrugged, closing the old yap again without a word.

"You're interested in a different kettle of fish, aren't you, Dommie?" This shrewd statement was backed up by one arched blonde eyebrow and an insouciantly swung ankle; giving up all pretense at either falsehood or knowing what in blazes was going on, I just shrugged again and nodded. "Well. So is Liv. And so am I." Miranda leaned over and patted Liv's knee lightly, aiming the old eyebrow at me. Miranda might never be a mother, but she would make a fearsome aunt one day, I could see.

"Oh, rather," I managed to say. "Fascinating. But just what do I have to do with the price of beans in Birmingham?"

"We need a beard, Dommie," Liv said simply. "My father is absolutely _insistent_ that I should marry, and Miranda's is just as bad, though _she_ can escape him a bit better, wonderful rider that she is." She simpered at the equestrienne wonder, then looked soulfully back at me. "If you and _I_ get married, the three of us can retire to my family's estate in Lincolnshire and go our separate ways - you can entertain yourself _however_ you'd like, as long as you exercise a reasonable amount of _discretion_, and when someone likely and as kind as you _yourself_ are comes along, Miranda can marry _him_."

"It's a foolproof plan," Miranda said cheerily.

"It certainly is not," I said, standing up. I'd heard enough. "I'm afraid there are few foolproof plans that are proof for the Monaghans." I glared down at the two potty birds staring back up at me. "Your idea does not lack merit," I said icily, "but the fact is, I never did want to marry you, and with what you have said to me today, I certainly never _will_ marry you. Ever. At all!" And I crossed my arms and breathed heavily through my nose just to drive the point home.

Miranda looked at Liv, and Liv looked at Miranda. Both of them stood, Liv leaning heavily upon Miranda's arm. "We _are_ sorry to hear that," Liv said sweetly.

"Very sorry," Miranda put in. "It will be so much less pleasant for you to marry her if you do so unwillingly."

"I am not going to marry her!" I strangled. "Are you hard of hearing?"

"But Dommie," Liv chirped. "Think of how much a breach of engagement lawsuit would cost you." She shimmered at me, her eyes huge with false concern, and I felt myself freeze from balls to belly.

Boyd! What would Boyd do? "In that case," I pronounced, drawing myself up, "perhaps you should think of just how your fathers would react to the juicy columns in the gossip rags when I tell the whole sordid story." _Ha!_

They both went motionless at this riposte, and we stood there in a sort of frieze for a while: _Two Ladies and a Gentleman Upon the Verge of Bloodshed_, it might have been called.

Miranda spoke first. "We appear to be at an impasse," she said coldly.

"We do." I agreed, proud of how chilly I managed to keep my voice.

"Have you any idea how to resolve the issue?" Liv asked timorously.

Miranda and I eyed one another edgily. "No," she admitted, and I admitted the same.

But...

"Boyd," I said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Miranda and Liv both looked puzzled.

"If anyone can fix this mess, it's Boyd," I informed them with the utmost certainty. I broke the frieze and reached for the bellpull, giving it a hearty yank. "His brains are the best in the biz - Aristotle could have taken his correspondence course."

There followed a pause, the kind of time that any decent stage director in the world would have filled with some business or other - a song, a dance, a bit of vaudeville and plenty of leg, one hopes; my room, sadly, remained song-and-danceless, and the three players currently treading the boards made a sad show of it, indeed, wandering aimlessly about or sitting silently in chairs. Therefore I shall skip over that time - dead air, I think they call it - and get right to the juicy stuff.

When Boyd entered the room he did not appear at all surprised to see Liv and Miranda; then again he had not appeared at all surprised at other times in our years together to find me, for instance, handcuffed to a table lamp, or wearing lacy pink knickers, or, upon one memorable occasion, in both conditions. No, Boyd was almost unsurprisable, unless of course one kissed him. I sighed and swallowed heavily and braced the old frame for the serious business at hand.

"You rang, sir?"

"Boyd, we've a bit of a sticky wicket here, and I thought perhaps your brains could help us get unstuck."

"I shall endeavor to do so, sir - perhaps you and the ladies could convey the situation to me?"

I spoke; he listened. Miranda spoke; he listened. Liv spoke; he listened. When pretty much everyone had spoken except him, he stood with his eyes on the carpet and thought about what we'd said, oscillating slightly upon the balls of his feet as he so often does when deep in the arcana of the old mental processes.

"Well?" Miranda demanded after an indecently short time.

"I say, old fish, give him a chance," I jumped in hotly. "He's hardly had time -"

Boyd cleared his throat and we turned in unison to look at him, rather like the soldier chaps on that clock outside the store, you know the one, just down from the Ritz, on Picadilly. "I believe I have a proposal which might be attempted," he said to our expectant faces.

"Well," Miranda said. "Tell us!"

And he did.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just the usual gay Monaghan nature asserting itself.

I woke refreshed, relaxed, a giant among men. Well, perhaps not a giant; Bloomers did have it right when he pegged me at a tad on the shorter side of the whole spectrum of human development. However, it has always been my considered opinion that the air up there must be rather thin, since so many of the longshanks I've known have been as short in the brains department as they are long in the leg department. Bloomers being a prime example, with Bean running a close second. Whereas we more compact types - I stretched to my full five-foot-seven - were generally quite quick on the uptake. Boyd being the prime example, and no other needed; he was perfectly ideal both mentally and physically, and no taller than I. If not even a mere hair shorter.

Now, why is Dommie so bloody chipper this morning, an observant reader might be asking at this point. What happened after Boyd revealed his cogent proposal last night? Was there some late-in-the-race development involving Boyd, confessions of a heartfelt nature, chocolate mousse, and satin sheets?

Sadly, no. It was just the usual gay Monaghan nature asserting itself. I had no idea how the thing would resolve itself, but I was as goofily assured of it as though Boyd himself were on the case.

So it was that I was able to greet him with equanimity when he brought me a cup of the fragrant steaming. "Any news on the success of your scheme?" I inquired, having put myself on the outside of a sip or six.

"I have had word, sir," he said. "Before I tell you of my intelligence, would you care to breakfast here in your bed? I had the cook put something aside for the dumbwaiter in case you so desired."

"Make it so, my dear man," I said with a tentative smile. He looked down and coloured faintly at the phrase, but he was smiling slightly as he nodded and crossed to the portal. He maneuvered the ropes nimbly, waited a moment, and then hauled the contraption upward again and unloaded a tray of the best, including kippers, bacon, eggs and other whatnots. Boyd settled a tray over my lap and I patted the bed invitingly. "Now tell all."

He perched gingerly at my feet. "Yes, sir." He cleared his throat. "Apparently the whole thing went off swimmingly. As I suggested, Miss Otto spoke with Mr. Wood; the two of them worked out a mutually agreeable solution and the engagements shall be announced to all families concerned once Miss Holm has informed her father that her engagement with you has ended, due to your unfortunate mental relapse."

"Jolly good, Boyd. Who's having the old leg chained to whom?" I popped a rasher into my mouth and crunched away at it.

"It was thought desirous that Mr. Wood become affianced to Miss Holm, as his mother was more likely to become resigned to the idea should his wife be the daughter of a peer, even one so, ahem, recently elevated as Lord Holm." Boyd almost - almost! - smirked, and I let loose with the full cannon, snickering into my tea. "So Miss Holm will become Mrs. Wood, Miss Otto will become Mrs. Bloom, and all concerned shall retire to Lincolnshire, where there is adequate hunting to amuse those with such a bent, and the bucolic nature of the setting should allow for adequate privacy for the newlyweds."

"Boyd, you are a wonder."

"You do me too much honour, sir."

"No, no." I slurped back the rest of my tea and put the tray aside, leaning forward to hug my knees. "Here I thought I was sunk, faced with a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea - Liv being the devil, you understand, and legal entanglements being the deep blue sea -"

"Yes, sir."

"- but you brought them all up with a round turn, and satisfied everyone in the bargain. What _would_ I do without you, Boyd?"

He stood and took the tray to the dumbwaiter, sending it on its way. "I'm sure you needn't be concerned on that score, sir."

We were venturing toward dangerous territory here, and despite my morning certainty that all would end well, I felt an achy tug at my heartstrings, or at least somewhere in the vicinity of the breast pocket on my pyjamas. I daresay my voice was a tad more subdued when next I spoke. "I am glad of it, Boyd."

"Thank you, sir."

Things were pretty well quiet for a while, and I was just thinking of stirring the bones and dressing - Boyd had the wardrobe open and was surveying the cloth domain within - when there came a soft knocking at the door.

"Blast and botheration, it's a bit early, what?" I pushed out of bed and reached for my dressing gown, which Boyd held for me. "I'll get the door, Boyd, if you wouldn't mind throwing the counterpane over the sheets there."

"Not at all, sir, an excellent plan."

So it was that I was virtually alone when I opened the door and was confronted by Colonel Bean.

My first reaction, naturally, was to leap backward and slam the door; then I recalled the leverage I held over the hooligan, and so I merely scowled. "What in blazes are you doing bothering me, Bean?" I demanded. I left the door open and stalked away. "The problem, Boyd, with these country houses, is that so many people seem to forget what constitute decent calling hours - up at the crack of dawn and banging down the door at one minute after, what?" I sat in my chair and glared at the interloper, who had advanced a hesitant pace into the room, wearing a sickly grin and looking a mere six-and-a-half feet tall, if that. "Don't you think so, Boyd?"

"It is as you say, no doubt, sir." Boyd took up a station by the hastily shut wardrobe, and I took comfort in the fact that if Bean should suddenly turn menacing, Boyd no doubt knew ten varieties of Ju-Jit-Soo that would lay the Colonel out on his back in a jiffy.

"Oh, shut the door and come in, Bean," I commanded, waving my hand. "Is it too early for alcoholic refreshment, Boyd?"

"It is eleven o'clock, sir; perhaps a light cocktail would serve."

"Please and thank you, in that case." Bean was still standing nervously by the door. "Anything for you? And sit down, I can't abide having you hovering there like a hummingbird with a delicate constitution."

"I don't need anything to drink," Bean allowed, alighting on the settee. "I only came because - well." He looked a bit desperate.

"Out with it," I said. Boyd brought my drink and stayed near at hand.

"Actually I was wondering if I might have a word with. Erm." He coughed. "With your valet. If I might."

I glanced at Boyd, who raised an eyebrow, thereby denying all knowledge of why Bean might have sought him out. I turned back to the Colonel. "To what do we owe the pleasure? And I use the term loosely."

"Well, it's like this." And Bean proceeded to astonish me by pouring out the tale of his unrequited love for Serkis, with, frankly, far more details than either Boyd or I needed. When he finished, he blinked tearily at my man and said, much as Miranda had last night, "Well?"

Boyd glanced at me, then back at Bean. "Am I to take it, sir, that you would like my advice on resolving the matter in your favour?" Bean nodded. "And do you have reason to believe that your feelings are returned by Mr. Serkis?"

I fairly goggled at him; he knew and I knew that Serkis did, in fact, return Bean's love, amazing though it may seem. Perhaps when alone with the man the Colonel suffered one of those sea-changes Shakespeare was so fond of, into something rich and strange and so on... I was drawn from these musings by Bean's fervent affirmative.

"He will only confess to it when he's legless, but yes, yes, I'm certain that, were he not in my employ, Andy would be happy to return my feelings." Andy? Well, then Andy. I shook my head slightly and paid closer attention. This bore distinct possibility - perhaps I could pick up a pointer or two for use in my own situation.

Boyd paced to the drinks table and then back, head bent, hands clasped, brow furrowed in thought. Finally he stopped before the Colonel. "I do have a solution, sir, but it is somewhat unorthodox, and it might require a certain amount of sacrifice from you. I shall put it to you and let you judge whether the prize is worth the price."

"Anything," Bean said, and I must confess that I was all agog to hear what Boyd would say.

He spoke slowly, without looking at either Bean or I. "If the obstacle is that Mr. Serkis feels constrained while in your employ, then you must dismiss him from your service."

Bean had questions, I remember that, and I can recall Boyd's sweet liquid lilt answering them all. But my mind was far away, spinning on at a rate that would have done any stable in the land proud.

Finally Bean left, pressing a ten-pound note into Boyd's hand. I sat in that chair still, pondering and pondering and pondering some more. Boyd busied himself with my clothes; I hardly stirred at the crack of the ironing board he pulled from within the wardrobe and placed in the center of the room, so absorbed was I.

At last I stood, and wandered toward him. I wandered on past him, hands stuffed casually into the old pockets, don't you know, and then I removed one to lean down and unplug the iron.

"Pardon me, sir, did you need that outlet?"

"Just planning ahead, Boyd." I sauntered around the ironing board to stand beside him.

"For what, sir?" He was looking down at my trousers laid across the board, finishing the crease there, his face very faintly pink.

"Put the implement aside, Boyd, if you don't mind, I've something to say to you."

"Of course, sir." He set the iron gently in its cradle and turned to face me.

"Boyd." I stepped close to him. I could smell the clean, spicy scent of his shaving soap.

"Yes, sir."

"This is important." I stepped closer yet and he took the teeniest step backward, unease creasing his noble brow.

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed." Closer yet, and his eyes went a little round as he backed away again. "As you know, you have been in my employ for many years, and I have always been pleased to the utmost with every service you have performed for me."

"Thank you, sir." A faint sheen had appeared upon his upper lip and I had to wrench my attention from it. On the plus side of the ledger, it made it very, very easy to take one more step forward.

"You are welcome. But Boyd." I inched even closer and he gave way again. One more step would put his back to the wall. "I am afraid that in one matter you have not provided... Hmm. Fulfillment, shall we say?"

Boyd's chin lifted and his cheeks were fiery red. "In what area of service have I ever lacked, sir?" His eyes looked even greener against the flush of his face.

I stepped forward, forcing him against the wall. "I do not choose to say, Boyd." I raised one eyebrow. "But it leaves me with little choice." I leaned toward him until my mouth was a hairsbreadth from his. "Boyd."

"Yes, sir." His breath whispered across my mouth and I nearly forgot what I needed to say; I stood there, bent toward him and breathing a rather quickly, for quite a long moment.

Oh, yes.

"You're fired," I said.

~*~*~*~

Now I come again to that niggly little question - just how much detail do I insert? The story is basically over, don't you know. There's just some shagging still to come (if you'll pardon the pun), and a few little details like where we'll live, and who sleeps on the left and who sleeps on the right, and the fact that Boyd - William - will have to teach me to cook if he's not going to be doing it all from now on, not being in my service anymore. He'll also need to teach me where he keeps things, and how to iron and do laundry and what we do with the waste bins when they're overflowing and other such useful facts.

So I could, of course, end things right there.

But the shagging is really top-quality, so I suppose I'll include it, too.

~*~*~*~

"Am I, sir?" Boyd's face, despite being quite rosy, was as calm, polite, and impassive as I had ever seen it.

"No need for that anymore. William." I felt my heart flutter wildly. What if I'd made a dreadful mistake?

"No." He cocked his head and licked his lips, and our mouths were so close that I could almost taste it, that quick pink tongue. "I suppose there's not." The silence where he might have added "sir" sounded pretty well thunderous. I didn't move, couldn't have moved if the roof had caved in at the moment, which luckily it didn't.

But, also luckily, I apparently didn't need to move because Boyd - William - moved next. He lifted one hand and grasped my arm just above the elbow. "There are other things I've been doing that I can stop, too," he said. His fingers were firm and chaste over my sleeve, though their warmth burned right through the intervening layers of fabric. He might have been taking my arm to usher me courteously through a door.

"What might those be?" My throat was suddenly dry, which was annoying because my palms were very damp and I had to work deuced hard not to wipe them on my dressing gown.

"I've been not-touching you." His other hand came up to hold my other arm. "I've been not-kissing you." He leaned forward the requisite quarter-inch and brushed his lips against mine. "I've been not-pressing myself against you," suddenly his whole body was brushing me just as his lips were, "I've been not-shagging-you-through-the-wall." He suddenly grasped my arms tightly and whirled me so it was _my_ back to the wall and him on the outside, still pressed against me from nose to knee.

If ever a man was wrought up to a fine pitch by lust, it was me. Or possibly William, who had a raging erection pushing against my raging erection. Let's just say we were two fairly highly tuned men at that moment, vibrating with the kind of lust that only class separation and years of suppressed desire can work to a really proper froth.

When my back hit the wall and my front hit William I let out my breath in what might possibly be termed a squeak, and I swallowed hastily and fought to maintain some sense of, well, sense. "That's a lot to not-do, William," I said, and I brought both my hands up to his hips. "Do you think you can stop not-doing all those things at once?"

He grinned at me suddenly, a full-on grin with teeth and crinkled eyes and laughter shining from every pore. "I'm quite looking forward to it, Dommeh," he said cheerfully, and then neither of us talked for a while, because our mouths were busy doing other things.

He tasted of tea and lemon and something faintly minty, probably tooth powder, but thoughts about the taste of him were quickly overwhelmed by the _feel_ of him, his mouth sliding smooth and sweet against mine, teeth and tongue and wet and heat. He kissed like he did everything else - divinely, powerfully, perfectly. The only things missing were restraint and control, because after ten seconds or so no one observing us would have believed we had any control left whatsoever. His fingers were bruising my biceps and I daresay mine were gripping his hips quite hard right up until the point at which I slid them on round and gripped his arse, his marvelous beautiful mouth-watering arse, and believe it or not it felt as good as it looked. I pulled him forward, and he came quite willingly, grinding against me in the pelvic region until we were both whimpering into each other's mouths.

"William, please - _please_," I gasped. He slid his hands up my arms, over my shoulders and then neck and finally he was clasping my face gently, and kissing me not gently at all, fierce and hungry and passionate and very slightly messy.

"Please what?" he asked, dropping his head to my neck to begin licking and sucking there.

"Touch me, please, please touch me," I moaned, massaging his arse and grinding myself into the heavenly bulge at the front of his trousers.

"Want to touch every part of you," he replied breathlessly, one hand sliding around to the back of my neck as he bit my throat gently. "Touch, lick, kiss," his other hand made an abrupt and dizzying plunge and suddenly my engorged cock, still sadly clothed, was grinding against his palm, "suck..."

I groaned. "Oh my god, yes," and pushed boldly into his hand.

"We should lock the door," he panted between bites.

"Yes," I agreed, pushing my hands up under his jacket, fingers sliding over the crisply starched linen of his shirt, feeling how it was sticking to the small of his back, feeling the muscles move in his back as he twisted and pressed against me.

"Bed," he ordered, stepping away from me with an effort. "Clothes."

I nearly died at the loss of contact, but I knew I _would_ die, a thousand times over, if anyone walked in and ruined this moment, so I nodded and hobbled and hopped to the bed, shedding pyjamas and dressing gown (not in that order, of course) as I went.

This exercise left me plenty of time to recline and watch Boyd - _William_, dammit, I'd have to get accustomed to that - turn from the door and stalk toward me.

He was a sight out of my warmest fantasies, all tousled hair and flushed face, shirt half-untucked and jacket rumpled, and most of all his eyes, bright and predatory and jade green and burning into me. He began to shrug the jacket off but I sat up. "No!" He cocked his head and crossed the last few paces to the bed. "Let me." He smiled and looked down for a moment, but went motionless, standing beside the bed, fully clothed.

I wanted - _oh_, I wanted. Wanted to taste every inch of his beautiful body, unwrap him like a Yuletide gift, explore this new territory.

I knelt on the bed and wrapped my arms around him. His mouth met mine like a blessing, a benediction. "William," I said against his lips, and I smiled with my eyes closed, feeling his lips curve beneath mine as he whispered, "Dominic."

We embraced for that long moment, my naked skin pressed against his clothes, arms round each other, resting and promising and making silent vows.

And then I _needed_ to move, needed to prove to him how ardently I'd been hoping for this opportunity. And as he seemed equally enthusiastic about the entire endeavor, the stars appeared to be happily in our favour at last.

I sat back on my heels and began to undress him. First the jacket, which I pushed from his shoulders gently. He closed his eyes and then glanced at the crumpled pool of black material at his heels. "My jacket will get wrinkled."

"You can teach me how to press it properly," I said. "Do you object to being a kept man?" I fingered the finely woven cotton of his lapels.

"I do, sir - I mean, Dominic. And I can keep myself quite well, thank you." His chin lifted proudly.

"Ah." I leaned forward and breathed in his scent, curling my fingers into the small spaces between his buttons. "What if I... tore something of yours?" I gripped and yanked my hands suddenly apart, rewarded by flying buttons and the gaping ruin of his shirt.

He stared down at what had once been a beautiful Oxford linen garment, then lifted his gaze to mine. "I would certainly let you replace it if you ruined something of mine," he said, standing perfectly still, though his eyes had gone dark.

"That is a shame, because I will never -" I pushed the shirt from his body - "ever -" I tugged his undershirt from his trousers-- "_ever_ -" I pulled it upward, and he cooperatively raised his (smooth, muscular oh holy god save me from this sin) arms - "buy you a single _stitch_ of clothing." I wrestled the shirt from his body and now he was bare to the waist.

"Why not?" he asked, his chest (lightly furred with lovely soft ginger curls) and belly (smooth and flat and just aching to be licked) moving up and down with his rapid breath.

"Because you are too perfectly delish without clothing, of course," I replied, and suddenly his mouth was on mine again, he was kissing me, pushing me greedily back and climbing onto the bed until he had me flat on my back and he loomed over me on hands and knees, his mouth so hard and hungry and needy on mine that I couldn't stop the noises I made, couldn’t stop the whimpers and gasps as he splayed one hand flat on my chest and held me down, dropping to cover me, his trousers nothing more than an annoying layer between me and the really enormous hard-on I could feel against mine as he ground himself down, rocking against me as his tongue met and ravished mine.

The next moments are, frankly, a bit of a blur in my memory, what with my hands fumbling at his trousers and his hand finally - finally! - gripping my cock so that I yelled and bucked against him, seeking precious friction as though it was the holy grail, and then I think there was more licking, kissing, biting - I know I later noticed (gloated over) several lovely marks on my neck and shoulders, and he'd one on his chest, right beside a beautiful rosy-pink nipple - and I know that I, at least, was doing quite a lot of moaning. I remember getting my hand inside his trousers at last, only to discover that the rogue wears _no pants_. This realisation nearly led to spontaneous orgasm, but William saw it coming, so to speak, and did something painful and fantastic to my aching cock to delay it. "Not till I'm in you," he grated into my ear, which frankly did not get me much further from coming right then and there. But it did give me an incentive for waiting, as did his vise-like grip on my balls. My response may have left something to be desired in the field of romance - I believe my exact words were _Then get your fucking cock in my fucking arse right this fucking minute you beautiful bastard_ \- but it certainly conveyed the sense of urgency and passion I felt at the moment.

His pants and socks and shoes vaporised somewhere in the next few minutes, and then there was a frantic but mercifully brief search for something suitable to keep the whole affair pleasant for all concerned (lube, my dear innocents, I mean lubrication). William, brilliant William recalled the bath oils and sprinted for them while I lay on the bed, quivering, suspended between the need to pull myself to a much-needed climax and the need to wait till I could have the delectable William do it for me.

Luckily he was quick - I think the matter had become rather urgent for him, as well - and it was but a moment later that I was on my hands and knees, panting as he slid first one finger and then two into me - _god_, the stretch, the tingle, the beautiful burn of it and then the sharp, electrocutionary spasms as his nimble, beautiful fingers found that one particular spot most guaranteed to make nine poofters out of nine howl in ecstasy.

"Oh, fuck, Dominic," he breathed, sliding in one more finger delicately.

"Enough, enough, yes please do," I gasped, pushing back onto his hand as he groaned, and then I felt his fingers slide away, his hands upon my hips, felt the bed shift as he aligned himself behind me.

"Dominic," he said quietly, and things went still for a moment. I opened my eyes and twisted my neck, looking over my shoulder to where he knelt, poised to pierce me and claim my body as surely as he had claimed my heart so many years ago. I smiled at him, and he smiled back and then looked down and pressed gently into me.

It was... it was exquisite, is what it was, that first almost-painful pleasure, the deep and undeniable knowledge that this was actually happening, that my every fantasy was being granted, that the absolutely bloody amazing feeling of being filled and split and fucking-well-blinded by total bliss was coming from this, from him, from my William.

"I'm no' going to last long," he groaned, and I whimpered, my cock giving a joyful throb. Then he began to move, sliding slick and hard within me, slowly at first but then faster, as though he could not stop himself - and what a thought _that_ was, I bit my lip and braced myself better and slammed back onto his cock so hard he cried out - and then he leaned over me, reaching around to grip me precisely where I wanted his hand most and hitting my prostate at the same moment.

"Oh god ohgodohgodoh_William_ -" I shouted, and a matter of moments later I came, breath sobbing from my lungs like I couldn't bear to have it in me any more, every nerve-ending afire as the pleasure of it ricocheted through blood and muscle and bone. William followed a moment later, his body twisting and sliding against my back as he strained and thrust himself deep, deeper, deepest, fingers digging into my skin and his mouth open against my shoulder-blade, air whooshing across the sweatslick skin.

"Dom," he panted, and I slid onto my stomach and he slumped atop me, and we lay that way for a minor eternity, breathing and letting our hearts slow and just enjoying the damp sticky feeling of skin against skin.

I told you it was top-quality shagging.

"Should I move?" he asked after this perfect interlude, and I sighed.

"I suppose so. You feel absolutely spiffing there, my own personal blanket, but things are a bit messy just beneath my belly."

He laughed, a jiggling little jar against my back, and rolled off. And out, and I made a sad little sound, which he answered with another laugh. "It won't be too long a wait until I'm back," he purred, shifting to lie along my side, one hand caressing me from shoulder to arse.

"I shall hold you to that, William," I said, struggling to my hands and knees reluctantly. I pulled the counterpane over the large wet spot, using a corner to swipe at my stomach with a little moue of concentration. Then I flopped down, turning on my side to face him, placing his hand firmly back upon my hip.

He smiled and stroked me again. "Dominic."

I shivered and closed my eyes, wearing a doubtless goofy expression. "I love hearing you call me that."

"I enjoy saying it." He propped himself on his elbow and looked at me for a while, and I returned the favour with interest, feasting my eyes upon his glowing skin. A banquet for the eyes, as the man says. I wriggled forward a few inches, tucking my nose against his chest and sighing with contentment. His voice rumbled against my cheek. "Are you certain about all this?"

His warm Scottish voice was so soothing it took me a moment to absorb any actual meaning from the syllables. When I did I bolted upright. "Are you potty?" I stared at him. "I've been picturing this moment for nigh on ten years. If you ever see one tiny iota of regret on this face, you have my permission to draw me, quarter me, boil me in oil, and lop off my head as an affront to humanity everywhere." A terrible thought thundered over me. "Are _you_ certain?"

He allayed my fears immediately with a smile. "Aye, I am. Why do you think I've taken such good care of you all these years?" I relaxed again, and reached tentatively to stroke his sandy hair. "Why do you think I've cooked your food, cleaned your flat, greeted your guests - a rather ripe sampling of humanity, you will grant - pulled you from the fire, and pressed your trousers for so long?"

"Well." I traced his delicate lips with one finger. "I pay you a jolly decent wage," I said.

He bit my finger. "You _paid_ me a jolly decent wage," he replied, licking the digit as he released it. "And I loved you."

"Did you, Boyd - I mean, William?" I lay down again and snuggled into his perfectly naked, perfectly delicious frame.

"I did, sir." He flushed, and grinned. "That is to say, Dominic." He pushed his fingers through my hair. "We shall have to get used to these new appellations."

"Mmmm. Names, you mean?"

"Yes."

I closed my eyes and slid one arm over his waist, rubbing warm circles down his hip to the curve of his arse. "There are times when _sir_ could be quite appropriate."

In an instant I was flat on my back, William's green eyes sparking above mine, his curlicue mouth curved into a rather wicked smile. "Let's just remember who should be using the honorific," he murmured, rocking slightly so that his hips slid tantalisingly across mine.

"Oh, yes, sir," I breathed.

And a while later:

"Oh, _very_ good, Boyd!"


End file.
